Story Chapter 1: A Sunday Morning

This is the first chapter of a short story I'm working on. I will hopefully post the other parts soon, or as I get done with them.

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It was an early Sunday morning, and after a hectic week of work, the neighbourhood slept uninterrupted. Everything was still and silent; everything except for the branches of an old neem tree that swayed in the wind - and the sparrow that lived on it - which went about their usual business, oblivious of the fact that it was a Sunday.

Next to the neem tree there was an old house (the oldest on the street, perhaps even older than the neem tree itself). For years the house had stood alone next to empty plots on the street, and it had seen the deserted region grow into a neighbourhood that buzzed with life. But now, it wore a tired look; it seemed like it no longer wanted to carry on with life. The yellowish paint on the walls once used to be white, but now it was peeling off; it seemed as if the people around had stopped caring for it.

Inside the house there lived a lonely old woman (quite old, but not as old as the house). Rashida Ahmed - a widow, almost seventy years in age - gently massaged her knees in a futile attempt to stop them from aching. She looked at the clock - it was almost seven-thirty. She sighed. Fareeha, the maid, usually came by seven and she was quite punctual. Rashida hoped she would not take an unexpected leave today - she needed her, to do the groceries and the cooking as well as the cleaning - the house looked quite dirty today, she noticed.

Winters were drawing closer, she observed as she realized how cold she was. Rashida reached out for her warm woolen shawl. It was a beautiful shawl; beige, embroidered with intricate geometric patterns in shiny pink thread. It had been a gift from her son, Umar, on his last visit from Germany, four years ago, she recalled. She gently stroked the soft fabric. It had been a lovely gift, Umar knew how much she adored shawls. Rashida looked around the room and realized that half the things lying around were gifts her son had brought her; the patchwork covers on her cushions lying on the sofa, her comfortable room slippers, the clock on her bedside table, the 49” LED TV screen on the wall.

But Umar had no idea, Rashida thought, that she loved him more than any of his extravagant presents, that even a truckload of these would not equal an hour he spent with her. Nevertheless, her son had no time for his old, ailing mother; he was the reputable doctor in Germany whose mother didn’t matter nearly as much as his career did. The most he could do was invite her to move to Germany as well, which she had refused. Twenty years ago, after her husband’s sudden death in a car crash, Rashida had vowed to herself that she would never move away from their home, the place she had moved to when she was married, which contained so many memories of the time they had spent together, of her husband’s family (most of which had died now), of her son’s childhood, and of days gone by.

Overcome by nostalgia, she closed her eyes and let the tears trickle down her face. There was no one around to hide them from, anyway.