Chapter 09

Eid al-Fitr.

A time for family, reflection, clarity and re-prioritisation.

The Quran was first revealed to The Prophet today.

Ahmad wondered whether The Prophet spent his days as he did, watching his children skip around the shop, indulging in their silly games.

He wondered if The Prophet was ever in love as he gazed at his wife, Faiza, dressed in a stunning purple abaya.

She only wore it on special occasions, but to be frank, it didn’t matter what she wore – he loved her all the same.

His wife was preparing the biryani, hand-mixing the rice, spices and meats, careful to preserve its texture while balancing the taste.

Ah, her delicate hands.

His children continued to parade around the tables, weaving in and out of baskets and bags scattered around the shop and the courtyard outside. It’s quite amazing how agile children can be, he chuckled to himself.

In the other corner of the store, his brother and sister-in-law were busy bickering as usual, over the bloody anchovies for that matter. Their mother and father attempted to break up the argument.

“We’ll buy the anchovies and spices next time – it’s no big deal.”

“That’s what you said last time too, and you ended up leaving it to us,” Fatima, his sister-in-law scoffed.

“Don’t speak to my parents like that, it was just a mistake –”

Crash. Aliyah chortled, ignoring the commotion between the adults. She zoomed and fell into a basket of anchovies, still giggling as she looked up at her father from within the basket.

He tried his best to look at her lovingly, though he steadied and braced himself for Fatima’s wrath as he quickly realised that his peace was over.

“Brother Ahmad, do you know how long it took us to source these goods for Eid? Is it so difficult to keep your kids under control?” Her head now turned towards Aliyah, towering over her, “Always playing, running, playing – do you do anything else all day?”

An awkward mix of scoffs and silence pervaded the room. 

Ahmad carried Aliyah out of the basket, who had now broken out into tears, and hid her behind him; the other children were now hiding under the stool.

“Sorry, Fatima. Say ‘sorry’, Aliyah,” he gently nudged her from behind, seething under his breath.

Faiza emerged from the kitchen utterly confused, but knelt to embrace her crying daughter.

“Ugh, this family and their poor manners. You’re all goddamn awful,” Fatima spouted.

“And you think you’re amazing, do you?” Ahmad’s mother riposted.

“Don’t be rude, ma,” his brother weakly argued.

“Who was rude first, Shahzad?” his mother spat, before reproaching him for his failure to protect his own parents, “You’re the breadwinner of your family and you let your wife treat us so?”

Unwilling to sentence his children to any more of the family feud, he signalled to Faiza to take Aliyah, Ismail and Rayan to the courtyard.

As they slowly walked away, the commotion faded into the background; Ahmad's mind drifted away, as he ruminated on how stunning his wife was in a purple abaya, how petite and gorgeous little Aliyah was, being carried in his wife’s left arm. The final touch completed the aesthetic: their two handsome boys, Ismail and Rayan, clutching onto Faiza’s right arm, both hobbling towards the courtyard in their vibrant, orange thōb (ثوب).

His family, a sight to behold.

He smiled, he gleamed; he had never felt such intense happiness.

He walked forward, excited to join his wife and children in the courtyard –

Light.

A faint whine of a drone overhead.

A thunderous din.

He was on the floor now, a melodic flatline echoing through and through, heat adding weight to his vision.

“Faiza!” he screamed, but the tinnitus persisted.

It felt like hours before he was able to squint against the heat.

He rubbed his eyes. Please, let me see. A mistake, he realizes, as his eyes began to sting. 

As he crawled in agony, a combination of odd sounds – crunches, squelches, thwacks – accompanied his every move.

There wasn’t time to think; his eyes were still burning; the tinnitus dissipated a little, but the stillness, the lack of conversation, giggles – heat – were beginning to haunt him.

He crawled a little quicker – WHACK.

His head slammed into something concrete. He stretched out his right hand, praying for something familiar to be within reach.

Please be there, please be there – yes, yes, it is. I’m at the kitchen door, or at least what’s left of it.

In his first moment of confidence, he peeled himself off the floor and lunged forward, hoping knowing that the water taps would be in front of him.

…

Not a single drip of water.

He frantically rotated the taps – counter-clockwise, clockwise, counter-clockwise again.

Nothing.

He flapped his hands into the sink while still blind and deaf, desperate for something – anything – before the erratic movement of his hands tipped a bowl over, his palms now wet from what he presumed to be water.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he began flicking whatever moisture he could gather into his eyes.

Come on. He blinked, and he blinked again. Please.

Relief steadily set into his eyes, as he slowly made out a squint.

Half a blue door was attached to the storefront by a singular hinge.

Bones dusted in ash carpeted the entrance.

He blinked.

Basket, bags, burnt.

Chairs, couches, ceramics, cremated.

He blinked again, his eyes clouded with tears this time.

Flesh, some burnt, some fresh, fragmented and strewn across the floor.

He closed his eyes to remember the sight of his wife in her purple abaya and his three children, but the sight was quickly distorted – his ā'ilah’s arm exploding into pieces, her flesh tearing off her bones and the life in his children’s eyes being scalded from their faces.

Ahmad screamed, shaking his head furiously, yearning for the beautiful image of his wife and children, begging Allah for it all to end, but all he could see was the pool of blood mixed with ash and flesh before him.

When the horror of his family's obliteration consumed what little sense he had left, he turned a knife upon himself, driving it into his own eye.