Suggestions: Please try to bring more emotions through your voice. Make us feel Timkey's sadness, Aman Wadi's anger. Like in movies, we see actors showing emotions when performing dialogues. Please do not skip any words, do say the name of the author too. Thank you so much.
Novel
"Timkey and Pinkey"
by Rizwan Ahmed Memon
Chapter 2: Colorless World
The day came to an end, and twilight faded into darkness, but Father still hadn’t come home. He returned late at night, after Uncle Arbaaz had gone to bed.
Pinkey and Waseem had gone to bed without Father telling them a bedtime story. He often told them about the prophets or other Islamic stories before putting them to bed. They especially loved the story of prophet Joseph.
I saw Father and put my dupatta, a shawl-like scarf, on my head. “Baba, you’re late. I mean … shall I bring you a meal?”
“No, thanks. Tension has killed my hunger.”
Mother heard his voice and woke up. “You’ve come home… Were you at the mosque?”
“Yes. I don’t have a moment of peace in this house. Father’s stubbornness and Arbaaz’s greed, wanting to own all the land, has snatched the comfort of my heart and mind.”
Mother asked me to bring Father’s food. After putting his food on his cot, I went back to my cot to do my homework. I often read books late at night.
“We shall give them everything and leave this house,” Mother said.
Father sighed. “I’m his son, too. He must at least give us some land to build a house.” I looked at Father and felt his sadness.
My mother rolled her eyes. “Yes, but he won’t do that. And your brother wants to hoard all the property without sharing anything! As if he’ll take it to the grave.”
“Father just doesn’t want us to be separated. It’s Arbaaz and his wife who can’t get along with us. Father understands us, but Mother—she cares too much for Arbaaz.”
“Let’s leave it to God,” Mother said. “I fell asleep waiting for you and didn’t offer the night prayer.”
She left to do her ablution, a common practice among Muslims to wash parts of their body before every prayer. I started to read a lesson in my textbook.
“Timkey, how’s school coming along?” Father asked, slowly eating his food.
I looked up from my book. My father didn’t normally ask about my education. I doubted he even knew what grade I was in. “Very well, Baba. I got an A in a math test. Next year, I’ll be in the 9th grade.”
“If you need anything, let me know,” said Father.
“Baba, my uniform has become old,” I nervously said. “I was wondering if you could buy fabric for my uniform and Mother will sew me a new one.”
“Okay. I’ll buy it for you tomorrow.”
A smile spread on my face. “Baba, I also need a box of crayons. I want to color my drawings.” Father agreed to buy me crayons, too. He finished his meal, and I finished my homework, and we both went to sleep. Mother was still praying as I closed my eyes.
The next day, Pinkey, Waseem, my three cousins, and I prepared for school. When we were about to leave, Aman Wadi asked us to wait at the door of our house. “Timkey, how old are you?” she asked, rubbing her chin.
“I’m 13, Aman Wadi,” I replied. “And I’m in the 8th grade.”
“You’re almost 16! Aren’t you too old to go to school now?” she asked.
Almost 16. I thought. I remained silent.
She approached me and snatched my bag from me. “Children, you go to school. Timkey won’t be going anymore.”
The earth shook under my feet. She was going to do with me what most people do to their girls in rural areas of Pakistan: Stopping them from attending school. “No, Aman Wadi. Please give me my bag,” I protested. “I have to go… I’m going to be late.”
Aman Wadi shook her finger at me. “You won’t be doing a job or anything like that when you grow up. You’re a girl. You must learn what girls need to know.”
Mother saw us and ran to me. “Chachi, please give the bag back to Timkey.”
Aman Wadi refused and shouted at my mother. “Who are you to send her to school? While I’m still alive, and in this house my rules are followed.”
Father came out of the room when he heard Aman Wadi shouting. Father asked us to go into our bedroom, but we didn’t.
My cousins all looked at us. I started to cry. Pinkey took her bag off from her shoulder and put it in front of Aman Wadi. Pinkey feared she might scold her, too. Aman Wadi looked at her and didn’t say a word. Aunt Fariha sneered at us.
All the boys in our home were able to go to school, but I was forced to stay home.
From that day on, my school life ended. Aman Wadi insisted that I learn cooking, sewing, and needlework. I wished that there was a rule in the Pakistani law to send all girls to school and not stop them until they earn at least a Master’s degree. Neither the present democratic government nor the past military rule could implement the laws of empowering women properly.
Pinkey stayed home that first day out of fear, but the next day Father sent her back to school because she was still in the 5th grade, and Aman Wadi didn’t object.
Mother taught me how to cook wheat meals and make puddings. When I wasn’t busy learning household tasks, I often snuck into Aman Wadi’s room to search for my school bag, but it was nowhere to be found. She must have locked it in her safe. One day, Baba Haji saw me in their room. “Are you looking for something?”
“No, Baba Haji. I was just looking at the ceiling to make sure there weren’t any cobwebs. I’ll clean your room thoroughly tomorrow.”
Baba Haji seemed to understand what I was looking for. He looked at me for a few seconds, and I looked at him. Feeling embarrassed, I left the room. I noticed something about Baba Haji that was different. Older than Aman Wadi, creases of lost time were etched deeply into his skin, which exposed innate wisdom about himself. His eyes sacred and still, seemed to weep with the pain of his prayers. A lingering sadness on his face made me wonder what tragedies he had experienced. No matter what stories were buried deep inside of him, he still cared about his appearance, as many older people do. Wearing a turban of the same color as his ancient beard, a beautifully patterned scarf known as Ajrak, draped his neck to keep it warm.
The next day, I went to clean Aman Wadi’s room. As I swept the floor under Baba Haji’s cot, I saw my schoolbag. I quickly took it and hid it in my dupatta, and silently left my grandparents’ room.
In the privacy of my room, I looked at each of my books one by one, my unfinished dreams. Aman Wadi had not snatched mere papers, but my heart’s dreams and songs. When I removed my drawing book and saw that some sketches needed coloring, I could only see the color gray, as my world now appeared to be. Unable to even finish the 8th grade, I became another one of the millions of Pakistani girls who could no longer attend school.
As I looked up at the cloudy sky, the sun struggled to make an appearance. The anemic star that couldn't seem to penetrate the haze was a stark reminder of this new life that no longer seemed to have meaning. I felt a certain kinship to the sun: I was lost in world of gray.
That day when Aman Wadi snatched my school bag would never be erased from my memory, but I refused to let it get the best of me. Somewhere, deep inside, a desire to get an education still burned, and my dream of becoming a doctor still lived.
