3. Aunts & Guns

it's a bad week to be alive

The brass nameplate beside the iron-wrought gate had lost its lustre and was scratched in several places, the words 'Professors Afsar & Saroor Rashid, 15 Taylor Avenue, Edelweiss' embossed in Times New Roman on its surface. Taylor Avenue wasn't really an avenue because there weren't any trees lining it, but nobody seemed to care.

The pebble muttered a tiny curse as I kicked it away from the sidewalk, swinging the chest-high iron gate open. As I crossed the small but well-kept lawn with heavy steps, the savoury scent of cooking beef made a roar stir up in my stomach.

Maybe I'd earned Allah's pity. It was pretty rare for Ma and Bapi to arrive home before me on weekdays, and I could definitely use not having to stick rice from the fridge in the microwave for lunch. Finding the front door open, I trudged across the foyer and gingerly peered into the kitchen, mentally groaning when I realised who it was.

It took Poppy Khan exactly 3.78 seconds to notice me, and the first thing I received from her wasn't an embrace or doting words or even a half-assed greeting. Pausing her vigorous stirring, my beloved (not) aunt sized me up with scrutinising eyes. "You've gotten fat," she bluntly stated.

 Khammi rarely called me by my name, she often remarked that it was 'too Hindu', which made zero sense. On top of her massive neck, her head was perched uncomfortably, as if it were slowly sinking into a puddle of slime. Dyed blonde to look fashionable (the colour looked amazingly horrible on her), her hair had twinges of a dirty black where the colour had faded. She wore a set of thoroughly beaded hot-pink georgette shalwar-kameez and her entire collection of ruby jewellery.

I forced a small, tight-lipped smile to keep myself from swearing under my breath. "I know Khammi. I solely blame Ma for that, she makes me eat mountains of bhaat, rice, everyday." 

In an attempt to avoid looking at her directly (a childhood superstition that eye contact with her would turn me to stone), I wavered my gaze to a figure standing near the window with swishy waist-length hair dyed a murky brown, puckering its lips and clicking away selfies from different angles. I wouldn't say that I hated Fariah, Khammi's younger daughter, per se, but I definitely didn't like my cousin and the feeling was reciprocated. She'd blocked me on all social media, except her g****e account - angelfariahh@g***l.com.

"Didn't Uncle come, Khammi?" I played at curiousity even though I was well versed in the answer. Khammi suddenly seemed to lose her appetite for body-shaming. It was a trick I'd mastered over the years to shut her up, but I've been using it so frequently nowadays that I'm afraid she might catch on.

"He's busy." Khammi's husband, Luthfar Uncle (the 'Uncle' comes after the name and not before for brown people, it's a thing) was always busy. When I was younger, I used to imagine him getting on his knees and begging the bossman for more work just to stall going home - it was the sort of thing I'd do if I were married to Khammi.

"Oh. What're you cooking?" I stepped nearer to the stove and whiffed at the blissful smell wafting from the pressure cooker, resisting the temptation to reach into the cooker.

"Kachchi," she stated, her back straightening with pride. An important aspect of Khammi was that she was an efficient briber. She deliberately cooked incredibly delicious food to deceive and guilt you into liking her - until, of course, her superiority complex struck again.

"Ooh, cool. Um- I'll just go freshen up," I babbled, disconcerted at myself for being pleased at her. I trotted up the stairs and threw myself onto the bed, curling my arms around my beloved kolbalish*, wallowing in self-pity at having been cursed with such demotivating family.

The sight of the makeshift art studio in the brightest corner of my room managed to alleviate my mood for a split second. On a creaky easel, a savage banana wearing sunglasses with a cigar in his mouth and THUG LIFE written above in pixelated letters that I'd painted for relaxation stared at me, making me smile. At least until I remembered stupid West and stupid Art Club. My pillow received a couple of frenzied punches.

 When the scent of the kachchi had gotten unbearble, I clambered up and changed into a set of comfy, worn down Minions t-shirt and palazzos. Yes, my daywear and sleepwear are the same.

I sneaked into Ma and Bapi's study before heading downstairs and checked my weight on the balance to discover that I'd lost precisely 0.6 kg since Khammi's last visit. So much for having gotten fat, Khammi.

-

The torrid feeling made a lump form in my throat. I could not swallow it down - I didn't want to try. It grew and grew until I was seconds from suffocation. Realising that the burning of my lungs was undearable, I splashed handfuls of cool water from the sink onto my face.

When Khammi had handed Bapi the ornate wedding card, I'd stiffened. My appetite had fled; the steaming plate of kachchi appeared distasteful in spite of being my favourite edible thing on the planet.

Images of that night flitted across my sight, and suddenly, I was gasping for breath again.

My aunt had a palatial mansion named after her called Casa del Poppy, complete with a mini theatre, a personal golf court and a majestic indoor swimming pool. It was on the other side of London, occupying 35 acres of Baskerville's finest. Their estate reeked of money and drove Khammi to suffer from a derisive desire to make everyone else feel small. It was the proud host of all weddings and functions of every generation of Khans alive and we were obliged to attend every single one of them, because while Khammi was my mother's elder sister, her husband was Bapi's cousin. Let's not delve further into my bizarre family tree, it even manages to confuse me half the time. I'll tell you something though - these aunts and uncles expect you to know each of their names and quirks by heart as if there aren't a few hundred of them.

With the endeavour to calm myself, I sat on the edge of the bathtub and patted my face with the butter-soft towel. The overwhelming feeling of guilt and despair from the thought of going back had a cruel numbing effect. Ugh, now that I have one, this tragic past is turning out to be a real attention seeker.

It's a bad week to be alive.

-

The steps in this house creaked. West hadn't realised this until now, as he climbed the noisy wooden stairs to his room. Back home, the white marble steps had only echoed footsteps across the large hallways of his Baba's house.

The room he had been given was disappointing compared to his old one, but one could only expect so much from a house so decrepit. Jim had told him that a creepy old man had died alone in this house a few months before, but West strongly suspected that he'd only been trying to scare him into dropping his midnight trips to the refrigerator.

An unmade bed lay stiffly in the centre of the small room, accompanied by a study desk and a wardrobe, all of which were brand new and juxtaposed oddly against the faded sea green wallpaper torn in places. The barrenness of the place made him sigh as he tossed the key onto the grey duvet.

Abruptly, from the room beside his, a crash tore through the dull silence, making his hands stop midway through unbuttoning the school shirt. He sprang up from the bed, moving across the room as noiselessly as possible.

West's heart beat unsteadily against his ribcage as he crept to the desk and slid the drawer open, curling his fingers around the stainless Desert Eagle pistol it revealed. It was a shiny ash beauty with a silencer already installed that his mother had slid it into his hands the week before. He was still new to feeling its weight against his palms, but the little experience that he had would have to do.

Back breathlessly pressed against the damp wall, he inched closer to the half-open door. The person outside moved with a slight rustle - he was definitely in the corridor now. West prayed to Allah that he was alone and forced his quivering index finger on the trigger.

Bracing himself, he swiftly swung the door open and rapidly fired two shots at whoever the hell was there.

West exhaled deeply when he realised that the hall was empty, consequently blinking in confusion. Then, a low 'mrewol' reached his ears and a furry warmth pooled near his feet. Pursing his lips, unimpressed, he picked Rani off the ground.

The cat purred irritatedly as West placed the gun back in the drawer after clicking the safety back on with his teeth. The mattress sunk significantly when he placed the cat on it, indicating that it had indeed grown all too fond of canned tuna. It stretched out its ink black paws to express its hunger with a whiny meow.

West scratched the back of his head. Jim would kill him if what Rani had broken was something important - he'd practically begged to take the cat along with them.

Through a slit in the grey curtains, he saw Shuan lean against the car and light a fat cigar. West had requested him for a puff of the Cohiba way too many times, but Shuan hadn't budged. He'd found that people smoking fat cigars often appeared pretentious, but it suited Shuan marvellously. Shuffling to the desk, he grabbed the flask resting on its shiny wooden surface and poured half of the water from it into Rani's bowl, but the cat shot him a withering look.

"Hey, don't give me that look, there's more to my life than getting you food," he warned, challenging Rani with a cocked brow. As West took off his shirt, the light brown stain on it made him remember the girl who'd so generously caused the mess. Aditi Rashid, the Principal had said after bringing him into her office. She will understand you.

Inevitably, Baba's last words to him came back to plague his mind.

Be soft, my sher, my tiger.

But then again, Baba did bail on him too.

-

Jim arrived half an hour later and found him hunched over a bowl of microwaved mac & cheese on the kitchen table, toying with it absentmindedly, which he must've read something into.

"What's wrong?" He inquired, and, shaking his head, West loosened his grip on the fork to reach for a glass of water. Jim, dissatisfied with the answer, stood with his arms crossed beside West until he gave in and sighed.

"Rani knocked your aftershave off the table today."

"And?" Jim asked. He was growing impatient with his brother's perpetual despondency over the time they'd started living together, but their mother had strictly ordered that West wasn't to be meddled with.

"And I almost thought it was..." pausing, West took in a breath. A dull, persistent pain began to pool in his heart. Jim drew out the chair beside him and sat down, placing a hand on his shoulder. His jaw muscle ticked as he stared down at his lap.

"You know very well that Shuan's here 24/7, we have no need to fear, West." When West snorted, he sighed and took his hand off his shoulder, bringing the bowl West had pushed away closer to him. He didn't bother to get a new fork from the drawer before digging in, while West proceeded to glare at him.

"Funny you should say that. Wasn't he with Abbu when he was shot?" he seethed, setting down the glass of water on the tabletop with a slam.

"Yah, you know better than this. We can't just hate on Omma - it wasn't her fault."

West shot up from the chair, a mixture of rage and incredulity beginning to obscure his train of thoughts. "Of course it was her fault, Jimmin! If she wasn't so obsessed with power and-"

Jim stood up as well, glare managing to intimidate even from his lesser height. "West! Listen to yurself! And stop being such a pansy about our father! Be a man, accept that he's gone!"

Tears pricked at West's eyes, and he realised that he couldn't remember the last time he'd cried instead of letting the anguish gnaw at his insides. "You need to listen to yourself, Jim!" his voice broke. "You're calling me a pansy? For what? Because I'm hurt over my father's death? Because- I'm afraid that the same might happen to me? If you knew him like I did, you'd know what I'm talking about but you fucking don't!"

Jim's mouth became sourer than ever. "I just want the best for you," he said, the emptiness seeping from his words glaringly obvious.

The suffocation creeping up his neck made speaking nearly impossible, but he pushed through. "Exactly how naive do you think I am?" He ran a hand through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts as he gingerly walked over to the stairs.

As soon as he stepped on the stairs, they groaned in protest. They groaned, throwing West into a puddle of despair as he was reminded once again of how much had changed.

-