We used to fight over a particular spot in what we called the TV room. It was the edge of an armless sofa that was closest to the television. The fight was one of many my youngest brother and I had. Our sister and brother were away in boarding school, and there were hardly any neighborhood children to befriend. My youngest brother was not always appreciative of the fact that I wanted to tag along with him, or tell him what to do.
That room, which became our haven, used to be part of the longish covered verandah that stretched from one end of the house, continued behind the drawing room, and ended behind my bedroom. A sparse, uninviting porch most times, save for the money plant vines and the ping pong table we inherited from the previous residents. It was the section behind my room that was converted into the place to watch television, rather than the recently redecorated elegant drawing room. A great place to hang out in the hellishly hot Lahore summers because that was where the air conditioner was.
My brother and I were watching television that night, one of us not wanting to rise from that coveted spot for fear that the throne would be usurped. It did not matter that we shouted out "same places!" before going anywhere.
Mommy walked into the room, beautiful as ever in a caramel colored shalwar kameez, with her favorite shade of red lipstick and her Madhubala looks. Or was it Meena Kumari? Some men in the street hollered one actress' name while others called out another. She was followed by this thing flitting in the air, this insect flapping its transparent wings to and fro as it hovered around her. The parvaana to her shama.
We saw how it wanted her, and how oblivious she was to it. Her mind was preoccupied as always with so many concerns besides her ailing mother who was in my room. We jumped up and down in front of her, pointing at her, shrieking, "Mommy, moth! Moth! MOTH!"
Mommy was horrified. The patient, smiling face was replaced by fiery eyes, her voice changed from melodic to deafening.
"Chup karo!" She shouted, "Why are you screaming that word? That is a terrible thing to say to your mother. You should not be talking about such things anyway; you are far too young!"
I did not know about my brother, but it dawned on me why she was upset. Especially with Naniji in the next room. We were still getting over the loss of Nanaji, only to see the woman he loved weakening every day; that courage and will we all thought propelled by her faith diminishing in some of our eyes.
"Mommy, we were pointing at the moth flying around you. Not maut. The moth." I explained, my voice up a few notches. She calmed down, finally saw what the ruckus was about, and let out a hum of a giggle. We laughed with her. She left us to check on her mother.
My brother and I went back to our television viewing, and quarreling.
