Nana Nicky

Most things I can recall without much effort. The day Ibbi was born, swaddled tight as Moosa Bhai’s cleanest paans, the ones he reserved for special customers with fat pockets or fat customers with weak-willed pockets. Abba’s promotion. Block 2 or Block 6, for days he murmured throughout the flat, into the walls, through the curtains even, until we learned it was neither 2 nor 6, the move to PECHS wasn’t happening at all. A fat mango peti coming and disappearing every summer. Ammi’s Taleem-al-Quran classes at Al-Huda, Ammi failing her exams, Ammi being kicked out, how can you fail a Quran class, Anjum, Abba asking angrily at first, then quietly, sensing in Ammi’s body a dull shame. Most of it I remember. Or I can bring myself to remember. A little bit of memory-stirring, sniffing a bit of this, putting on a bit of that, and with song and scent the event comes rushing back. The only time my devices fail is when I think of The Day It Happened. That’s where I draw a blank.

I can tell you who rang the alarm first but I would be lying and lying is not my vice of choosing. Cheating, perhaps. I’d rather people associate cheating with my name, or even double-dealing, which certainly sounds like my kind of thing, but lying is too lazy a vice for me to resort to, too uncomplicated and matter-of-fact, unless it’s beautifully constructed of course, but even then it’s just that. A lie. Accessible and barren. The word not meaty enough and the act certainly lacking the markings of a full-bodied vice.

It was Ali Bhai, the fruit seller. Or Sheena Auntie. Some days it’s Mahrukh, the little screamer living on the second floor of the flat. Other days it’s the chowkidar with gelled hair and an ungelled whimsy in his gait. Whatever, whomever. It matters not who rang the alarm, in fact it bothers me a great deal when people fixate on this silly detail, even the silly day itself, for The Day It Happened isn’t half as relevant as Nana Nicky.

#

Ammi and Abba were always in the picture, of course, but nobody willed their influence into my noggin as doggedly as Nana Nicky. At ninety-one the old woman should’ve been toothless but wasn’t. A terminal illness should’ve gotten the better of her, for the odds certainly weren’t in her favor, but hadn’t. Many things should’ve happened, as they had to friends’ grandparents, but Nana Nicky swat every odd that came flying her way. Not a single headache, bout of viral fever, bad eyesight, weak knees. Not even the odd stomach flu. The woman sashayed around the house, her greys dyed an immaculate chocolate blonde, lips painted Medora 408 Burgundy Babe. If age had shaved her lips down to thin slits she didn’t let it show. The Burgundy Babes were always plump and shiny, plumper than in her youth, some would point out.

Nana Nicky is my mother’s mother. Grandmother, some would say, Nani Jaan, as I did too in the early days, until the woman realized she had had enough. It’s Nicky, not Nighat, she established early on. Anyone who dared still call her the name that now lay dead and buried was harangued a specific shade of blue. It would appear suddenly on their face, a milky blue, forming at the temples and dripping down to the chin, horridly intact. Blue-faced today, blue-balled tomorrow, she warned, rage and retribution bubbling bright in her belly. Nani Jaan morphed into Nana Nicky much the same way. Not naa-naa, came the early scolding, it’s nay-nah. For while Nana Nicky treasured a thing or two in life, nothing came close to the love she felt for her white ancestry, or rather the fact of it. It’s one of the first things I remember her telling me. An English father, she would say, with blue eyes and a tight, clean mustache. She would point to Abba’s facial hair. Not like your father’s thicket, no less than a langur he is. Not lan-gur, Abba would retort. Langoor. Say it with me, Nicky, lun-goor. Lun. Goor. Lun-lun-pe-charh-goooooooor.

On hot summer days when school let out Nana Nicky would tell me stories about her childhood. The photos were always within a ten-foot radius, stowed neat as licked bones in a leaf-shaped paan daan. The one I remember most vividly showed a little girl in pigtails. To her right stood a tall, awkward woman, skin unmistakably brown. To her left, a lanky, equally awkward man, skin unmistakably white. My father, Nana Nicky proclaimed, pride rimming her crinkled eyes. An English civil servant posted at a district office along the Grand Trunk Road. The Grand Trunk what, I would ask, and in return came a perfunctory response laced with annoyance over the topic switch. Quickly Nana Nicky would steer the conversation in the intended direction and together we’d while the evening away discussing her English roots, how good of them, how good of them, no, of course you don’t have them, silly, not even your mother, too far removed, I’m the last one standing. I’d take a closer look at Nana Nicky’s arms, then back at mine. To me it was an identical shade of olive brown, in fact I could have sworn Nana Nicky was two shades darker.

#

A windy monsoon morning. That’s how The Day It Happened started. Ammi’s brief Al-Huda stint had just come to an end and she was back to self-coursing at home. Through the living room boomed Dr. Farhat Hashmi’s voice, agreeing with nobody’s ears except Ammi’s, especially not Nana Nicky’s. An argument broke. Why pry open jars you don’t have the bones for, Anjum? Outside the wind picked up. Then I go blank.

They say it was the doodhwala who rang the alarm first. A sharp scream followed by the cacophonous clatter of steel cans. I’m dying! I’m dying! Into the nearest can he spit out a thick globule of phlegm, a bit of red lodged into it, the workings of residual paan from the night before. It’s coming for me! Look, blood! It’s happening already!

Fahmida Auntie was next. Frying a batch of samosas the woman stopped abruptly, poured hot oil down the drain, then started sobbing into the sink. An illness, people thought at first. HPD perhaps, said Yashfeen, a medical student living on the sixth floor. What PD? Histrionic personality disorder, she clarified. Nonsense, said Hakeem Gabloo Jan. It’s a shut-and-open case of monsoon stroke. Open-and-shut, Hakeem Jan, and don’t you mean heat stroke? Han, han, shut-mouth-open. From his pocket the man produced a bottle of cobra oil. A veiled woman smiled coyly on the packaging while a big, fat cobra serenaded her waist. No sooner had Hakeem Jan twisted the cap open than he collapsed onto the floor, the bottle with him. Within seconds the apartment complex began to vibrate with cries, wails, screams, groans. A thick, knotted frenzy settled over the neighborhood, evident on everyone’s face, kids and adults, men and women, even Fahmida Auntie’s two-month-old baby, who surprisingly wasn’t one for crying but had broken out into a particularly high-pitched bawl just then. Everyone’s face except one person’s. Nana Nicky’s.

A hazy picture began to emerge the next day. By then the kids had gotten over it, they who weren’t that into it to begin with, who had no reason to care much, if at all, about The Day It Happened, or The Happening, as they were now calling it. The adults, on the other hand, tightroped panic. Faces cracked and shadowed like clementines left out in the sun too long. Limbs hastened. Fear and dejection settled deep into the hollows of the bones. On the 18^th of July 2017 at 12:34 in the afternoon the residents of Gulshan-e-Iqbal had learned, or rather the news had befallen them, become intuitive knowledge, when they would die and how.

The doodhwala was set to conk out at 67. Lung cancer. Aged 32 he had a long way to go but terror lodged into his throat regardless. Why me, madarchod! Leave mothers out of it, someone spat at him. Bloody chod, bloody! Why me! Abba got the short end of the stick. Flatlining at 54, heart attack. I quickly did the math. Eight good years left in him. Ammi kept mum at first, then between sobs revealed her fate. 81. Freak accident. Her initial silence puzzled me, for her end of the stick was long and luscious, yummy even. Not stroke, or cancer, or a lazy heart attack. A freak accident, that too at 81. That could mean anything from her Hully Gully ride ripping loose at Hill Park to the LPG cylinder exploding in her face. Eventful was my take. Harrowing was hers.

One by one everyone in the neighborhood laid their cards on the table. At first people blamed Hakeem Gabloo Jan and his bottle of cobra oil, but seeing as he was a victim as much as the next person the swarm of suspicion lifted off, thickening instead above Nana Nicky’s noggin. While everybody expressed some variation of terror, rage, panic, or mourning, Nana Nicky remained unmoved, not a muscle in her body resisting The Happening. Did The Happening even happen for her was the question. Nobody remembered seeing her on The Day It Happened, but then memories of The Day were fragmented, scattered, even absent as in my case. What was certain was the contentment on Nana Nicky’s face, worn like her favorite haldi face mask. On her lips, in her eyes danced a gaiety nobody in the neighborhood had seen let alone experienced. The woman was reborn. Not physically, for no amount of face masks or Medora 408s could mask the hint of ugly that Nana Nicky carried in her face, eyes too far apart, cheeks sitting plush on the jaw. But spiritually Nana Nicky was baptized.

Waggling fingers don’t stay airborne for long. Eventually they must land. And they did, squarely, at Nana Nicky. If there were ways to ward off suspicion the woman didn’t consult the brochure. Quickly news of her alleged immortality, slipping from her own Burgundy Babes, reached the entire city. Within hours Waseem Badami from ARY News was at our doorstep, jittery underlings carrying recording equipment in tow.

A premonition, Nana Nicky took the lead.

Yes, a premonition, certainly a premonition, volleyed Badami, but unlike everyone else you seem to be celebrating, not mourning.

My premonition was different.

And how so?

You must know my blood, Mr. B. May I call you Mr. B?

Certainly, and Mrs. Sikander how is it that yo—

—Nicky. You must call me Nicky.

Eight minutes is all it took to roll the next headline into shape. Waseem Badami didn’t move his mouth much. He didn’t have to. The Burgundy Babes labored for him, the fruit of which was televised across every screen, printed crisp in our faces come morning. A colonial specter, read the front page of Dawn Newspaper, is haunting Karachi. An English witch, said Nadeem Malik from Samaa TV. And not just any witch, Nadeem, but of the most peculiar kind, certainly the most peculiar kind, cautioned Hasan Nisar.

I’d imagined on more than one occasion what fame would feel like. On more than one occasion I’d imagined life as a Jazim Babar with the same swoop and a taller, older brunette by the side, Disney looks if not a Disney career. As the child of crorepati parents with a lacking countenance but a not-so-lacking exotic car collection. A musical prodigy. One of those kids who gets thirty A*s in O Levels. Maybe even an Olympic medalist. I’d imagined more than I care to admit but no reverie had fulfilled me, given me a sense of complete, blooming pride as much as Nana Nicky’s lived notoriety. Within minutes ours became the most hated family in all of Karachi. Why the hate extended to us Ammi couldn’t understand. It’s Nicky who said those things, claimed those horrors, she cried softly into her dupatta, not us.

The neighbors wanted nothing to do with us, even Mehreen Auntie for whom Ammi had cooked many a nalli bong nihari. Zeeshan Mamoo, estranged from the family for over seventeen years, called to tell Ammi what a disgrace she was for failing to control her mother. Abba’s entire family moved to Islamabad. Got new SIM cards. Even the family vet we trusted with Kaju Katli, our twin tabbies of twelve years, blocked Abba’s number on WhatsApp.

Within a week Nana Nicky had given fifty-four interviews, the contents of which Ammi forbade us from discussing but Abba and I relished nonetheless. A gift from my English ancestors, she told PTV News, the gift of immunity. What kind of immunity, Nicky? Why, immunity from knowing. From death. From knowing death. From dying! When Khalid Malik from City FM 89 asked who brought this upon the people Nana Nicky started squealing like a geriatric dolphin. Who else! It’s the work of the ancestors and I’m the conduit. Isn’t it most remarkable?

A motley of suggestions filled the air, both inside our ostracized family and outside. A jinn, Ammi spluttered between sobs, dropping to all fours. A jinn has possessed my mother. We need to arrange a ruqyah. And who will do that for you, Anjum, ribbed Abba, admired as we are within the community? Karwan-e-Hayat was suggested next. What-e-Hayat, Nana Nicky chortled from the kitchen, vegetable peeler in hand. Is that the loony bin in Nazimabad? Or Keemari, is it? I seized the opportunity and pulled up a quick photo on Google Maps. Loony bin, loony bin, Nana Nicky roared theatrically, swiping through a handsome collection shared by an avid reviewer, laughter billowing from her lips. Off I go to the loony bin!

Outside the suggestions were milder, which caught me by surprise. An interrogation, I’d imagined. Hanging upside down, water splashed on face. Cold, but not too cold, cold enough to jiggle weak bones. A conviction, perhaps. Treason, which wasn’t entirely out of the question. Maybe even exile. I imagined quite a lot, not that I wanted it to happen, but simply because there was much too much thinking material to work with and wasting it didn’t seem the sensible thing to do. Nothing of the sort did end up happening. Not exile, not a conviction. Not even a frothy slap on the wrist. Instead the questions became meeker, landings cushier. Another month and the stressors of everyday life started laddering the city’s spine, throwing Nana Nicky somewhere to the side.

When Naveed Baba, a 51-year-old cobbler set to cash in his chips in three months, ended up, in fact, not dying, not even a little bit, people were more upset than relieved. By then the premonitions had become as matter-of-fact as mango ripening in the monsoon air. The initial hullabaloo had quietened into a resigned understanding. To say some were even happy with their fate wouldn’t be an exaggeration. An assortment of jolly lined the streets, some celebrating a dignified end to undignified demands for roti, kapra, makaan; others happy to be rid of pruned fingers and minds.

Ammi herself had made a dull, distorted peace with her expiration date. Al-Huda accepted her back on the condition that she improve her memory and manage a dinky 40% on the tests if not 60. Chewing a pack of stale almonds morning and evening she was grateful to be on the right path again, and would this have happened if it weren’t for The Happening? No, it most certainly wouldn’t have, she sniffled, tasbeeh in hand. Even the family vet started frequenting the mosque, offering free check-ups to strays, except the local dog Jigar who had a reputation for nibbling on raised behinds during Jummah, and except, of course, anybody associated with Nana Nicky. Vexed as they were with the master instigator people had started to come around to The Happening itself. So when Naveed Baba was still mending kolhapuris two days after he was set to kick the bucket the city naturally came unglued. Like a roll of negatives unspooled rabid minds, each image a grotesquerie to the naked eye. Most had planned out the rest of their lives, whatever little remained, with an uncanny neatness. Umrah, expedited hifz. A hundred fasts to make up for adolescent hanky-panky. Feeding the needy. Tahajjud, Ishraq, Arbaeen, Chasht. Then finally the big gun: Hajj. Few had executed any and more time should’ve brought greater comfort but was it more time is the question that unleashed a full-petaled undoing. The lurch from uncertainty to certainty back to uncertainty loosened something tight within the body, creating a laxity that rendered the mind and body incapable. Incapable of want, of desire, of anchoring. Incapable of will. Like mango softening in muslin the city pulped around the edges, then the insides, the entirety of it eventually giving way. I stayed home, it’s simply too much for you to witness, Ammi warned. Nana Nicky didn’t, for which I was most grateful.

#

A winter funeral, beyond my wildest expectations, fond as the woman was of the sun and mango and humidity and hot rain. A winter funeral, not just any winter funeral, but one dictated by a will built around it. Who gets to keep the leaf-shaped paan daan she didn’t give a hoot about. The mango petis, should the orders continue, for it irked her when Ammi sent them back in her absence, never to be sent back, she roared. The vegetable peeler she didn’t let anybody touch, could it now be touched, perhaps even used. The answers dissipated with her. What remained was a will running over three A4 sheets, not a word on anything other than the funeral.

The neighbor’s son Qasim wouldn’t relent. Even four years after The Happening he scanned me like a shonky bag of goods, stopping repeatedly at my shank. I shoved a wad of tens and twenties into his hand and made off with the motorcycle. In the middle of a pandemic with the cold nipping at my unacquainted buttocks I rode thirty miles to find chambeli. Another three to strike a decent deal. By the time I returned the graveyard was empty save for a few familiar faces lingering after unfamiliar graves. A month after the funeral, the will said, A FULL MONTH AFTER, NO LESS AND NO MORE, it barked, fifteen minutes before fajr prayer scatter six handfuls of chambeli over the grave. It barked some more then, FIFTEEN MINUTES AND FIFTEEN MINUTES ONLY, before coming to a matter-of-fact close.

I removed my mask and waddled to the grave, my buttocks slowly defrosting. The gravestone was filthy. For all its tedious minutiae the will had failed to account for grave maintenance. As I scattered the handfuls, counting each diligently, a voice called out. Oye! Gulab, sirf gulab! Rose petals only! The groundskeeper-cum-phoolwala handed me a plastic bag filled with red rose petals dripping in sheera. Assi hogaye. That’s eighty rupees. I paid the man, then turned to find the chambeli I had so carefully scattered flying off in the wind. Nana Nicky’s grave, white seconds ago, now lay bare. I scattered the final two sets, watched as the wind carried them away. Quietly, politely even, for I found no protest in me.

As I made to leave a second voice stopped me. Where did you find chambeli in January? I turned to find Medora 408 Burgundy Babes speaking to me. The same shade, more oxblood than burgundy; same finish, more like spittle than gloss. Fuller albeit. Younger. I don’t know where it came from, the lie. I’ve always thought it the laziest of vices, but before I knew it the despicable thing was rising in my mouth, frothing. An old man sells them, I said, at a khokha two streets away. I pointed in a random direction. Tottering, painted blue. You’ll spot it from afar. The woman thanked me and scurried off.

I looked back at the grave, the lie still fresh in my mouth. The rose petals suddenly felt heavy in my hands. I toyed loosely with the plastic bag, then emptied it over the grave. A bed of red stared at me, the sheera weighing the flowers down, keeping them intact. A bed of brown stared at me, red and brown, rows upon rows of beds. I wiped the gravestone until the dirt gave way, then went off to find the woman with the Burgundy Babes.