It was her fourth birthday when she saw her parents fighting. She sat in the lap of her grandmother and watched them shout at each other. “Why are they fighting?” she asked. Her grandmother wrapped her arms around the innocent child and told her, “You’re not supposed to speak in the matters of elders.
It was her fourth birthday when she saw her parents fighting. She sat in the lap of her grandmother and watched them shout at each other. “Why are they fighting?” she asked. Her grandmother wrapped her arms around the innocent child and told her, “You’re not supposed to speak in the matters of elders. You’re a child so don’t ask such questions.” This was the first time she was told to not question her elders; it was also the last since there was no need to repeat it afterwards.
She grew up never asking anyone any questions, out of fear that she’d offend someone. She never asked why she was treated differently than her brother. She never asked why she had to be careful about everything. She never asked why her parents always quarrelled on little issues. She never asked why religion was a matter not to be discussed and just to be followed blindly in her house. She never asked why she was not allowed to live her life the way she wanted to. She never bothered asking because she thought that asking questions was disrespectful, that asking questions would demean her somehow in the eyes of other people. Her ability to question things got lost between all her uncountable sacrifices and haunting silences.
It was one of the coldest nights of December. Everything was freezing, but the blood in Maira’s veins was not. She was shouting at the top of her lungs, which was a first for her, as her husband looked at her like a lion ready to lunge. A hard slap landed on her face before she could even complete her sentence, leaving her unfinished sentence hanging in mid-air. He slammed the door shut behind him as he went out while she stood there in disbelief.
She realized she was shivering; whether with anger, sadness, or cold, she didn’t know. Her vision was blurred by tears. She got knocked into her senses when she heard her four-year old walking into of her room, clutching her teddy bear tightly in her hands and calling her out, “Mama.” She turned around, wiped her tears and her runny nose with the cuff of her shirt and smiled at her daughter. “Mama, what happened? Why were you and Baba fighting?” the little girl asked.
Maira was suddenly reflecting on her whole life. She wanted to tell her daughter not to ask such questions, that the society won’t appreciate it if she did. Why? That wouldn’t matter. All she knew was that kids weren’t supposed to ask questions.
She picked her daughter up and sat down, putting her in her lap. She kissed her forehead, smiled, and instead said, “Ask.” She said it as if letting go off a great burden that she had been carrying all her life. “Ask, my little angel, whatever you want to know, whatever bothers you, question it.” She slid her hair behind her ear and continued, “Questioning is your right, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You will learn and become strong by asking, not by staying silent.” Her daughter hugged her tightly and listened to her speak up for the first time. It was as if Maira was telling this all to the little four year old girl inside her who was told to be silent since the beginning. “Ask why you were not treated like your brother. Ask why your parents were always fighting. Ask why religion was a matter not to be discussed and just to be followed blindly. Ask why you were not allowed to live your life the way you wanted to.”
She had started crying again as she wrapped her arms around her child tightly and kissed her hair. “Ask; because to ask is not to disrespect, my child, answering in the wrong sense is.”
Finally, after 23 years of her life, she took a deep breath and realized that she could breathe.
