Chapter I: When A Man Dies

This is something I've been fooling around with. I'm introducing it in installments, mainly because it's too long for a single blog but also because I haven't found a suitable way to end it. I like it because it's raw and unfinished; I call it my Swiss Cheese version because of the numerous holes that are just waiting to be filled with plots and character development, etc, etc. Why am I sharing it in this phase? I have no idea. I figure that's what the Hyena's Belly is for: criticism, sharing, learning together. Just digest it (if you can). Introducing Installment One:

It was a long-drawn goodbye, filled with tears and painful yearning.

For weeks, he had lain in bed, eyes half-closed and fighting to inhale each precious breath of air. Though he could barely see, he was very aware of the presence of his family around him. His senses picked up every movement, every sound and every emotion, especially the fear and uncertainty. He responded to very little these days, but his greatest source of joy was still Mariam. Dear Mariam—she was his constant bedside companion and nurse. Her touch was always gentle, as though she feared that any sudden movement would send his soul right out of him, far away from her. One day her six-year-old son, Mohammed, pronounced that Baba would rise from his bed to play football with him very soon, because he had seen it in a dream. His words encouraged Mariam and revived her faith in her father’s ability to recover from his mysterious illness. The air around her was charged with an optimism that threatened to falter, yet she remained hopeful. Ahmed wished he could put her mind to rest with the truth which only he knew, but he was weak and could not find the strength to speak.

Sometimes, he could see his beloved Shahina sitting on a low stool in a corner, just beyond the shadows that clouded his vision. At those times he would smile wryly, or so he imagined he did, as he considered the fact that she had always seemed to be in her own world, separate from his, and now, even now, she remained beyond his reach. She rocked back and forth, crying silently as she fingered her prayer beads. She did not spend as much time in the room as she should have, as his wife. There were guests to see to, meals to prepare, and her children, though grown, made many demands on her as they returned home one by one to pay their last respects to their dying father. As she grieved in her dark nook, the visitors nodded in approval of her bereft stance and one could hear snippets of their whispered conversations: "...a good wife...so devoted and caring...she would follow him into the grave, she loves him so...." Few, if any, realized that Shahina’s grief was only for herself and her fate, as she contemplated what would become of her after her husband passed away. She had never loved him, had only grown to tolerate him over the years. And now that he was dying, she knew that she would be handed over like a used, dirty rag to their oldest son, Abdul, just as her father had handed her over to Ahmed decades ago.

She and Abdul had never been close, had never shared the indelible bond that a mother and her child should possess. Throughout his childhood, Abdul had reserved his love and affection for his father alone, a fact that she resented throughout his life. She never hid her jealousy. Through it, she was able to enact what she considered to be acts of vengeance upon him: a pinch here, a slap there, depriving him of presents and privileges that she would freely give to his other siblings. It could come as no surprise to her, therefore, that the boy slowly grew to hate his mother as much as she seemed to hate him. But now he was the man of the house and tradition would place her under his roof, in his care. So as she waited, she worried and bemoaned her powerlessness yet remained the splendid picture of a sad widow.

(to be continued....)