Muhammad Womik
At noon, the clock struck twelve, and Haidar found himself in the kitchen with his Amma. The gentle tunes of Nayyara Noor played on Amma’s tiny radio, filling the air with the low hum of a soothing melody that seemed to harmonize with the sizzle of spices and the bubbling of pots on the stove. The aromatic symphony created a haven of warmth and comfort in their small kitchen. These moments in the kitchen held a special place in Haidar’s heart.
Amma, multitasking as always, prepared dinner earlier than usual. She had taken on additional responsibilities recently tutoring the neighbouring children, in addition to her usual chores. Her days brimmed with activity, as she tried to compensate for the household’s ever dwindling funds.
Haidar’s father had been successfully unemployed for two long years. The only other success he displayed was one which pertained to finding excuses to blame Haidar’s Amma for the misfortune that seemed to trail his shadow since their marriage.
Haidar clutched his “I can be a Chef” Barbie doll, a prized possession he’d convinced his Amma to get for him by likening it to her. To accommodate his father’s disapproval of his son playing with dolls, Amma had encouraged Haidar to call it an “action figure”. Haider delighted in watching his Amma cook, often mimicking his “action figure” as if it were his Amma herself. He eagerly assisted by fetching ingredients and utensils in addition to tasting the food to ensure it matched his father’s discerning palate. The warmth of his Amma’s love enveloped the kitchen, banishing the cold from the floor where Haidar sat.
In the absence of Haidar’s father, a delicate tranquillity settled over their home. The air seemed lighter, as if it had shed the burden of tension that hung heavily in his presence. The kitchen, once a battleground, transformed into a haven where Haidar and his Amma shared tender moments, their laughter and warmth filling the space like sunlight filtering through curtains.
Suddenly, the front door creaked open, an eerie and unusual sound, for Haidar’s father rarely returned home this early. Haidar’s Amma turned off the soothing music playing on her little phone. Startled, Haidar quickly hid his “action figure” behind his back and darted into his room without greeting his father. In his young mind, he believed he had gone unnoticed, but his father had glimpsed the golden locks of the “action figure” Haidar had concealed.
Haidar locked his room and sought refuge in his closet. As he crouched within, his small frame became enveloped by the suffocating darkness, clinging to the space like a shroud, only a sliver of feeble light creeping in through the door’s narrow gap. The air was heavy with the musty scent of old fabric and long-abandoned dreams, while the floor beneath him seemed to exhale a chilling draft. His Amma-like doll sat beside him, its plastic eyes and lifeless smile seemingly filled with the warmth and understanding he had found in his Amma’s presence in the kitchen. He placed his hands over his ears, hoping to block out the escalating sounds of his father’s anger. As his father’s yelling grew louder and more tumultuous, Haidar began to count, a coping mechanism he had perfected over time. He was a bright child, capable of counting well beyond a hundred at this point. Yet, with each number, he yearned for the day when counting would no longer be necessary, when the shadows of turmoil would finally recede, and his home would truly become the safe haven he so desperately desired.
