The Weight of Mortality
by Mahnoor Fatima
My husband keeps telling me to lose weight. He explains, repeatedly, how he is only concerned about my health, and that the extra pounds do not affect the love he harbors for me. But I can see how he has begun distancing himself. His late-night phone calls are most definitely not from clients asking about power cuts. While I know living in Lahore has its set of problems, particularly when it comes to utilities ideally considered constantly present by the more “developed” world, I have a strong feeling my husband was not the superhero looking out for everyone. His job title at WAPDA (Water And Power Development Authority) ensures he never has to deal with the more human repercussions of working for a service so publicly complained about. It was marked as a nine to five job. It is usually a nine to two one.
My mother, on the other hand, keeps pointing out how unnatural I am beginning to look – women aren’t meant to be bigger than their husbands, she says. I ask her what she thinks of pregnancy. She scoffs at me.
“At least pregnancy is turning big for a natural reason”, she waves her hand aggressively, “A woman holds new life. You have no business looking like this!”
I have accepted I am unnatural. My body might have served me functionally, but it has failed to serve my family aesthetically. My diet has undergone several changes over the past few years. Some worked well for me, some seemed to make matters worse. The physical exercises prescribed by my therapist also failed to help me squeeze into a smaller size of jeans. Treating my thyroid condition has not worked either. I am a wreck beyond repair.
I will have to do something to change my life before my family gives up on me. There are no children to look after me as I grow older, or to share a laugh with as my friends slowly drift away to focus on their own lives. On the rare evenings Mushtaq does not pretend he is busy with someone from the office, he sits in a corner of the living room and reads. I have tried making conversation with him. The spark that once lit up our household has disappeared. I slowly begin to loathe my very own existence.
Sitting by the side of my bedroom window, I spend hours staring at the mango tree that grows in the small garden behind the apartment. I wonder why the tree has decided to force its own growth. There is no sunlight that reaches the bottom of the creek-like space between the apartment buildings. Wild bushes grow on the bare earth, with some patches of grass spread along the few areas where the residents care for it. The tree has never given us any mangoes either. I think we are collectively just grateful to have a tree at all.
It was during one such rumination that I realize how I could turn things around for myself. If a tree, with a consciousness that could arguably competitively be compared with my own, could find its way despite its imperfections, then maybe so could I. I might not bear fruit, and I might not find myself in a particularly desirable situation. I could, however, still continue to grow into a person I would like to be. I need to change my life entirely.
Mushtaq has gone away for the weekend. He said it had been for work.
I begin by taking apart the furniture in the living room. There will be no spaces to sit leisurely. There would be no leisure at all – if I am to turn my life around, I have to start from the ground up. I will, quite literally, live on the edge. The coffee table that often times hosted a dish of salted peanuts and raisins would instead stand to its side, blocking the way to the bedroom. Every time any of us had to go to the bedroom, we would jump over the legs like an obstacle course. This would ensure constant physical exertion. I need more than the couple of hours the therapist prescribed. I need to turn my life around.
The front door I barricade from the inside. The only way we will enter and exit the apartment will be through the knotted ropes I flung over the balcony – with only two more stories underneath, it is hardly a climb that should exhaust us. I find myself studying the limits of human strength and endurance as I reason. There was one person who ran for 786 hours in one go. A high school student once stayed awake for eleven days straight, although his endurance record sounded more like a torture trial. This made sense. I was doing the right thing. The more I changed things, the more connected I felt with myself. I finally understood what my mother had meant when she told me my life was unnatural – this was far more natural. I was using my body in the ways it was meant to be used.
“What are you doing?” I hear my neighbor, Alyzeh, shouting from behind my kitchen balcony as I disconnect the water heater. She stands below me with her hand shielding her face instinctively from a sun that never finds its way to our narrow valley. I tell her I’m trying to lose weight. She nods once and walks back inside. I, too, return to the living room. There is a breeze gliding along the furniture stacked around the apartment. I can hear thunder rumbling in the distance. With all the excitement of a summer rain, I climb up the ladder to the roof. The weather is a gift from the heavens for my new state of affairs.
I sit on the concrete floor. My jeans, a pair that I have never washed, are stained with what I can only believe to be eagle shit. These brown beauties have been circling around my head. Their legs stowed away like the wheels of a plane as it takes off into the skies, into the blue vastness that haunts our lives. Never quite sure if it will land again, but with promises of free travel. A plane just flew across the sky. I wonder if the passengers inside worry for their lives as they travel through an impending thunderstorm. The eagles have dispersed, perhaps unsatiated with the knowledge that I am not a dead piece of meat awaiting their arrival. My voluminous self has never once deceived predators into thinking I am their meal. To all animal and non-animal predators out there, I am not prey to your gluttonous desires.
But I have strayed away from my narrative. I sit on the roof. My jeans protest as I try to scrape off the dried excrement – will I be expected to wash these now? I do not like doing laundry.
An eagle has decided to keep me company. He sits about two meters from where I am, his eyes darting passively to my place of presence. I light a cigarette and wait for the fumes to push him away; surely Pakistani eagles share the same code of honour that Pakistani humans share?
I see another woman on a distant roof, her head covered with a bright red dupatta. She narrows her eyes, hoping to catch the smoke that floats from my chapped lips. If she shares the unwritten code of womanhood, she will ignore me and continue her hump-like movements as she works her way through a pile of wet clothes. I fear she might not be aware of the code of womanhood – I have also realized her dupatta is a dark shade of pink. I wonder what optimism keeps her hanging the clothes in this weather. It is probably her mother-in-law.
The eagle still waits. He has taken a few steps closer, maybe hoping to share a puff or two.
“I do not encourage animals to smoke”, I say out loud, perfectly sane and aware that an eagle does not understand the human tongue, “It is fatal and a very bad habit.”
He blinks once, then flies away. I wonder if Mushtaq will come back. The rain forces me to go return inside.
***
I am standing eight floors above city road level – roughly fifteen times eight feet. If you are good at math, as all Asians should be, you will know how high I am. Am I high? Or am I high? That is open to debate. I am never sure what I mean by it myself.
Alyzeh stands to my right. Her hair is wavy and frames her face. She’s been told it looks like an explosion that went wrong. I’ve been telling her it’s because she’s the bomb. She shakes her head and looks at me in disappointment. I am not sure what I do wrong. I just hope she does not begin to hate herself for it – I am a recovering self-loathaholic, and I do not want to see other people go down the same path.
Mushtaq did come back. He refused to climb into the apartment using the ropes, and insisted on my opening the front door. As my husband, I had no option but to agree to what he wanted. He looked happier than before he had left. I wondered if that had anything to do with his work trip.
“Will you ever stop suspecting me of cheating on you?” He had sounded exhausted. I had stood to the side and awkwardly licked my lips. If he was intent on believing the lie, then I would have to, too.
“I won’t speak of it again”, I said, slowly returning all the furniture to its right place. To determine what the “right” place meant was up for debate, but I knew better than to ignite another disagreement just as he had come home.
But to return to our present narrative. The smog is very thick and slithers through the trees. I can see how bad it is from up here. It is a miracle we do not cough with every smogful we inhale. From the occasional polluted day to an entire season, it is no surprise that Lahoris have scientifically lost five years of their life. I wonder if my mother believes that is unnatural.
“There are a lot of trees in Lahore”, Alyzeh observes. I nod my head in agreement. Alyzeh is a smart friend. One of the rare ones I have. More than her brains, I value her heart. She continues to see the person inside me even when nobody else does. My bursts of hope and activity are all too familiar to her. She holds my hand throughout the process every single time.
We are standing inside a parking plaza. A young man sits in a corner and watches us looking over the city. He has an unpleasant look; his clothes have perhaps never been washed and his unkempt beard is in desperate need of a comb. But his eyes are a bright green; it is hard to look away from them. I take a step in his direction before Alyzeh shakes her head and takes hold of my hand. She does not approve of my talking to potentially threatening strangers.
The man takes out a cigarette, reaching into his pants and searching for a lighter. I know he does not have a lighter. He has already said it out loud once. I fish my lighter out of my sparkly bag and hand it to him. I keep a lighter in my bag for emergencies – in case I have to set fire to a bank or a salon. They are both haram as stated by religion, and while I do not call myself a religious person, I like to make a statement about the absurdity of absolutist values. I am joking. The lighter remains in my bag because I occasionally indulge myself in a smoke.
“Would you like one?” He asks. His voice is rough, but with a huskiness that pulls me to him. It takes all of my self-control to turn away and squeeze Alyzeh’s hand. She does not squeeze back.
“Your friend should not have so much influence on you”, he says. He points at Alyzeh. I turn to see she is frozen stiff. I look to the view and find it unmoving. The smog looks as concrete as the plaza I stand in. The homeless man has somehow stopped time. I cannot speak.
“She has no control of her own self”, he continues, slowly pushing himself off the floor, “But you have control over yourself. You can do great things.”
“What great things?” I finally find my voice. I press Alyzeh’s hand; it is still very warm.
“You will know once you realise and acknowledge their possibility.”
“How can I acknowledge their possibility? I am a very average human being – not even average, I am a horrible example of a human being and that is what everyone believes”, I scratch my head, accidentally undoing a pin and letting my headscarf fall to my shoulders. The man smirks, his eyes dancing with a lusty menace that sends shivers down my spine. I take a step backward unthinkingly.
“Everyone is average”, he walks around, “I know I am average, too, but I have mastered myself. So, I can control how long I want a moment of my time to last, because it is my moment to live in. Do I make any sense?”
I nod. He does not wait for me to speak.
“Do you see this noose around my neck?” I nod again. I had not noticed it before. His noose is tied to a ball of string in his hands.
“I hold this to show who is really in control of my life”, he continues, “It is me. I control what I do.”
“That’s a rather outrag –”, I stop myself in time, “Brave thing to say. Do you not believe in god?”
“I do, my darling”, he smiles serenely, “Why, it is to god that I have been waiting to go for all these years. You are why I waited for so long – you are why I have stretched my last living moment. I had to speak with you.”
He stands on the sill overlooking the view. Breathing in, I realize what he is about to do. I jump to grab his legs – but I am a moment too late. He is gone.
“Neha?” I hear Alyzeh, “Are you okay?”
“Didn’t you see the man with the noose?” My hands are trembling and clammy. I lean over the edge of the sill to check if his body has stained the pavement – but I see nothing. Everything is as it was before. My head starts to spin.
“No”, Alyzeh enunciates, “You’re the only one with a noose around her neck. I think we should go now. Mushtaq bhai will be here any minute.”
“Okay”, I say, realizing I would be taking the longer way down. Mushtaq is the last person I want to see. I sigh as I reluctantly step into the car. I have no place to call home anymore. Maybe that is why I’m seeing things.
***
The term “cease to matter” is interesting. Does it mean that something has lost its importance, as if importance was a solid, concrete item, or does it imply the termination of an existence? Cease to matter. Matter – what is the matter? There are four types of matter. Am I feeling a little liquid today? You sound like you’re a bit plasma. Happiness is the first state of matter.
Language is bizarre. So are our brains. Somebody once said that if we could understand the way our brain functions, we’d be too great a simpleton to figure out how they work. In other words, if our brains were simple enough to understand, we would still continue to lack the capacity to understand them. A direct equation. The brain always seems to be a few steps ahead. One of the better evolutionary aspects of our biology.
I ramble on to distract myself from the matter at hand (there’s that word again!). Time spent staring at the mango tree has always helped put my elastic mind at ease, but this hasn’t been doing the trick for me lately. Strings stretched to their limits. I feel like one day they’re going to snap and my head will explode. I am not sure how to deal with Mushtaq. He has given up on his relationship with me, and I am starting to believe I will give up on myself very soon, too.
My mother has invited us to dinner. She refuses to acknowledge the tension between us. With every morsel she watches me devour, her eyebrows seem to go even higher, the lines cutting her forehead deep. I stop eating after the first five bites. Her cooking does not appeal to me anymore. I used to think her chicken karahi was the best I’d ever had. Now it makes me sick.
“I think that’s enough”, she says as she pulls away the chicken from my side of the table, “You look like you’re full anyway.”
My lipstick is a subtle peach. I wore some before we set out for mother’s house. I had been looking forward to meeting my brother’s family. His wife is a gorgeous woman. I’m not sure how she fell for him, but I have come to accept that human emotion is unexplainable. I do not understand why I fell for a man – why I continue to fall for men. I seem to enjoy my own company more than anyone else’s. Maybe I’m too used to living in my head. I would argue that this is due to no particular fault of mine, but I stopped playing the blame game a while ago.
They have unfortunately gone to visit the wife’s side of the family. It is only mother, Mushtaq, and I. Mushtaq had been attempting to make light hearted conversation with my mother before he realized she was more focused on my plate than his words.
I swallow loudly, reaching for the diet soda to wash the food down. I see her eye my hands. Mushtaq notices, but chooses to stay silent. I calmly pour some in for myself. My fingers trace the condensation along the edges of my glass. I stand up and make my way to the front door. My husband continues trying to make light-hearted conversation with my mother as I turn the lock and step outside into the oblivious night.
***
I am on my roof yet again. Philosophers tend to have places of solitude, places where they have moments of enlightenment, where nature betrays her secrets (which begs the question, where does nature stand in a non-binary world?) to mortals who could never live to see them unravel. The roof is where I receive my bits of wisdom, where eagles and other objects of the divine come to converse with my humble self.
A crow was sat next to me a few minutes ago. I can never tell if a bird is looking at me or at something to their side; I am not sure how their eyes function. Maybe it was admiring the silhouette of a pretty woman against the orange of the setting sun. Maybe it was just calculating the time left to fly home. The crow did not stay long enough to let me know, although I did make it a point to give it my undivided attention. I realize crows are beautiful birds. With their gray ombres, I am ashamed to say I have never truly looked at one of these beauties before. We are merely biased. They do caw a little too much for my liking, but that is of little concern. It is I who has overlooked their exquisiteness, letting other birds shadow their constant presence. Bickering, beautiful bastards.
I was here last night, too. I lay down on the cold concrete, staring up at the stars. Staring at the stars is a metaphor – it implies a deeper meaning that people of my locale will understand. There was no electricity. I loved it.
Last night was a moment of enlightenment, about which I need to write today. So, I bring my pen and my black notebook, a notebook which will end soon, sadly, and I shall record those events.
Of course, none of this is odd. The sky has just turned a glorious purple! How sublime.
I was smoking my worries away, as I tend to do, hoping my heavy head would feel relief. Slowly, it felt lighter, until I felt like I was floating. My eyes followed the wisps of smoke that surrounded my head, like a bunch of souls trapped in this dimension, they danced and fought in spirals in the dark.
However, instead of disappearing, like my smoke usually does, the white trails slowly circled around to trap my head in a smoky haven. My eyes fixated themselves on the face-like structure that stared into my soul from the top, a disc that topped the helix and looked remarkably similar to my own face. Had I accidentally left my body and projected myself onto an astral plane?
Terrified as I was, I could not help feeling excited. This had to be the most prophetic experience I had ever had. I waited for the face to speak. It smiled.
“Hello, child”, it said. I smiled at how polite it was. My body suddenly felt stiff; maybe I was dying.
“Hello”, I answered, “Who are you?”
“I am the spirit who has been in contact with you all this time”, the eyes never blinked, which was slightly disconcerting. My head felt dizzy.
“Are you trapped in our dimension?” I wanted to steady my head, but I could not lift my arms. They were pinned to my sides.
“No”, it said, “I came here for you. I wanted to occasionally talk to you, and I must thank you for not leaving me disappointed. You have held many conversations with me, and I am truly grateful. I wanted to show you my face before I left.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes”, it sighed, “I was only allowed for this time. I must now return.”
“Why does your face look like mine?” I have never been one to shy away from questions. The spirit – dare I say it – seemed to laugh.
“Everyone looks the same”, it explained.
“No, we don’t”, my eyebrows joined together.
“People that surround you tend to look like you”, it said, “You have commonalities due to the common circumstances you share. It is easier for you to be more open to people who look like yourself, you feel safer because of the subconscious familiarity.”
“You make a good point, I guess.”
“I have only come to say goodbye”, the spirit sighed, “I am proud to see who you have turned into. You have come a long way; you are a strong person.”
“I am a confused mess!” I exclaimed, trying to get up again, “I am sad, and angry, and confused. I am not strong. You are wrong.”
“I am not”, it said with a finality, “Goodbye, human. It has been delightful. I cannot wait to see you in the non-human dimension – or whatever you will decide to name it. You are the writer after all, not me.”
“Wait”, I was more confused than I had ever been, “I am the writer? Of what?”
“Of everything”, the smoke was disappearing now, “Goodbye, dear friend. Write away!”
I blinked once, and realized the electricity was back. The construction workers were back to work.
***
I have tried running away from home three times now. They have all been failed attempts, and one of them cost my poverty-stricken, overweight self a hefty forty thousand rupees. I am now on a more stable track to leaving home – or so I believe. The results for plan number four will be more apparent in a year’s time.
Occasionally, I miss smoking. The smell had become a source of comfort to me when things were rough. And things were really rough for a while. Aggressive men and women scare me more than anything else in the world.
I dreamed there were three moons in the sky. The three turned into five, and then multiplied into ten. I looked at them in awe, searching for my phone to quickly save the moment. As soon as I clicked a picture, I realized the moons had been only a projection someone had set up in their back garden.
I’ve dreamed of my husband dying multiple times. I have even dreamed of my own death – I can still recall feeling the cold blade slicing through my neck. Bandits had stormed the train I had been traveling on, crashing it and murdering everyone on board.
I can’t seem to trust my own memory anyone. Or my feelings. They seem real and strong sometimes, but then other times I feel nothing at all. Maybe that is how all people are. We do like to believe we are special individuals. Maybe we all really are special individuals – we’re just too many individuals for it to matter.
There’s that word again.
I sit on the roof of my apartment building. I often come here. It is a nice place. The solitude, the silence, it blends well with my energy.
The birds have flown away. None of them wishes to speak to me like they once used to. The tap I see in front of me looks like a petite elephant staring at me, judging me, loathing me. Have you ever felt a tap loathe you? It is most bizarre. I do not loathe myself as much as I used to.
The weather promises rain. This concrete roof has seen it all – from my tiny emotional outbursts, to massive, heavenly breakdowns thundering from the sky. I wonder if my emotion merits attention in the grand scheme of things, if there is such a thing as a “grand scheme of things”, of course. Humans really are amazing story tellers.
A grey crow comes to sit next to me, taking shelter under the water tank. He looks at me and caws. I caw back.
Mahnoor Fatima is a multidisciplinary designer and writer based in Austin, Texas. She has previously written for multiple Pakistani papers as an architecture critic, and won the South Asian Literati Award for Micro-Fiction in 2019. She has also been published in The Aleph Review, and runs her own design magazine, Astana. She recently went surfing for the first time and loved it, but sadly she lives far from the ocean.