Short Story: The Aunt from Canada

Hello. Here's a story that I wrote. :) It has been inspired by some of my own life experiences and feelings about them, which is also why the narrator bears some resemblance to myself (it wasn't intentional).

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"Sannaaaa!" Ammi called from the kitchen. Reluctantly, I put down the book I was reading and went up to her to hear what she had to say.

"Put on fresh clothes. Your phuphi is coming to visit." I was instructed. I frowned. "Samra phuphi?" "No, your other aunt -" she said, pausing to taste the kababs she was making. I racked my brain. As far as I could think of, I had only one phuphi, one who came over almost every weekend with her two sons who would mess up the whole house each time they visited.

"Which phuphi??" I asked, perplexed. "Sameena phuphi, your father's other sister. The one who lives in Canada. Remember?" I recalled. Yes, I did have another aunt whom Abbu sometimes mentioned when he talked about The Good Old Days. The only time I had seen her was when I was a little baby. I had no memories of her.

Intrigued, I wanted to know more. "Does she have any kids?" "Yes, I think so. A daughter. She must be about your age…" she trailed off again, adding more salt to the kabab mixture she was tending to. "Now stop asking questions and go change your clothes," she said in an irritated tone. "They'll be here anytime now!"

***

I stepped outside the bedroom that I shared with my two brothers, having changed my clothes and brushed my hair. Ammi was nowhere to be seen in the kitchen. The drawing room door was closed. I wondered whether the guests had arrived and whether or not I was supposed to go inside. Just then, the door opened and Ammi emerged. "Sana, your auntie and her family are here. Go inside and greet them," she told me as she headed towards the kitchen, this time to fry the kababs I suppose.

Nervously, I opened the door and walked in. The drawing room felt cool and pleasant with the air conditioner turned on - which was a rarity in our household and was turned on only for 'special guests'. The air smelt strongly of perfume. Seated on the sofa was a tall lady with short hair, clad in decorative clothes. She was wearing a lot of make-up, I noticed, which made her look artificial.

"Zaheer, is this your daughter?!" The woman asked as she eyed me. My father nodded in the affirmative. The lady in question spoke with a lilting english accent. Hearing her talk felt strange to the ears - when she opened her mouth to say something one expected English to flow out but instead she spoke in Urdu - the familiar words dressed up in her somewhat exotic accent. Shyly, I walked up to her and shook her hand. "My, you've grown so much!" she exclaimed. It was not a question but I nodded anyway, unsure as to how I was supposed to react. I could never understand why adults deemed it so necessary to say this. Did they really expect us to stop growing just because it had been awhile since they last saw us?

"How old is she?" she asked, turning towards my father. "Eleven years old." He replied. "Same as Meesha. Sana, did you meet your cousin?"

It was then that I saw her daughter who - although she was sitting right next to her mother, I had somehow not noticed before. I smiled at her. Her face remained blank, indifferent. I sat down on the sofa next to her, wondering what to say.

“Do you like to read?” I finally managed to ask. “Meesha doesn’t speak any Urdu,” her mother spoke up, noticing my discomfort. I nodded, unsure what to do, feeling even more uncomfortable. Trying to strike up a conversation in English would be futile; my English being broken and hers almost certainly perfect, with a flawless accent. I didn’t want to look like a dolt in a room full of strangers.

I planted myself on the sofa, listening to the adults talk. There didn’t seem to be much meaning to what they said. After Abbu was done with inquiring about the well-being of all of his relatives living in Canada, near and far; and his sister had finished asking about all those living in Pakistan, as well as the ones which had passed away, an awkward silence seemed to hang over the room, like heavy rain clouds. For a while I just sat there, bored with all these people around me who were supposed to be like family; the aunt I had never met before, the cousin who spoke no Urdu, and the uncle who looked friendly but had nothing to say to me. The silence in the room was deafening. I waited for someone to say something - anything - to talk to each other, to laugh, joke or even to chatter aimlessly. Then I stood up from where I was sitting and walked out of the room, there being nothing else to do.

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P.S: It's been quite a while since I last posted. :( Sorry about that. Will try to maintain a more stable posting frequency in the upcoming months, Insha-Allah (which isn't easy, as I don't produce pieces of writing as efficiently as I would like to). Any feedback and ideas for future stories in the comments would be appreciated. :)