“Azalea Outside My Window in May with a Blue Jay,” Danielle Byington

It was right after Abba left for good that Amma started relying on Ms Ling for so many, many things. Up till then their engagements had been short, cooly professional—if what Ms Ling stated as her vocation could also be called a profession—once or twice a year but when our father packed his suitcases and said bye-bye to us and khuda hafiz to the apartment, Ms Ling was the first person our mother called.

And Ms Ling came, the same day, wearing a baby pink cardigan and white slacks, beige suede shoes, Hush Puppies, the kind which announce in their demure and functional design, the modest sensibility of the wearer while making it known that here is a person that considers all possibilities before making a decision, sartorial or otherwise. 

She was a whip of a woman, thinner even than Amma, with an erect posture, her black straight hair in an efficient bob and not a lick of makeup on her pale white face where the skin seemed too taut over the bone. Her lips were austere, her dark eyes calm and it was almost always impossible to tell if she was smiling or frowning because she seemed never to do either. Or perhaps she was one of those who managed to do both at the same time. I’ve come bearing gifts, she said to Amma at the doorstep, pointing with her chin to the red tartan bag she carried looped in her elbow.

Amma trembled as she let her in and Ms Ling placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Be strong Shaheen! Be strong!

She made our mother tea in the kitchen she had helped redecorate last year and as Amma sat in the corner, Ms Ling said that she would help Amma find her way again. Fall seven times, stand up eight.

Amma wiped a solitary tear streaking down her cheek then wrapped her fingers round the cup to warm them up.

You really didn’t know? Ms Ling probed our mother in her usual way, eyes narrowed to cracks.

No, I didn’t.

And he never said anything about this…this…man?

No. Never.

Where did they even meet?

He works in his office.

Ms Ling could not hide her shock at this suggestion of impropriety on Abba’s side. It was bad enough to run away with a man. But an affair at the office! She looked at the yellow checkered curtains in the window, scanning the small potted plants lined up along the marble top counter next to the sink. And these children of yours, she said. Did he say anything about them? How did they come into the world?

Just that he’d made a mistake.

Both women sat quiet for minutes, Ms Ling looked at the fridge covered in magnets then out the window again, crossing her arms and breaking the silence finally to say: I did warn you about this apartment.

But I did everything you told me to.

You did a few things, yes, said Ms Ling, sliding the toothy zip of her tartan bag and taking out the contents one by one, placing them on the kitchen table. But there is so much more that needs to be done here Shaheen. So much more!

She created an arrangement on the table of all that had to be added to the apartment: windchimes, some of wood, some of metal, crystals hanging on thread, octagonally cut pieces of reflective glass, coins in sets of three connected together, Chinese dogs in clay varnished to a dark maroon, a small turtle in bronze. So much more, she said again, putting her hand on Amma’s wrist. If you permit me, I can change your life!

*

The colors of the walls were the first to undergo scrutiny and Amma, as per Ms Ling’s instruction, had the whole apartment repainted—palest sage green for our bedrooms, a buff beige for her own and an off-white for the rest of the house. A week later when the fumes were carried away by the desert breeze out the window Ms Ling returned and with their arms linked together the two women walked through each room, Ms Ling reciting the particulars of her chosen method, Flying Star, and Amma, brows furrowed, trying to keep up with the complex science of it all. Amma’s dipping into the deep well of this vast and intricate philosophy had been too tepid, too cautious, Ms Ling said and the only way to move ahead would be a complete subsumation of Amma’s efforts to the rules of this unique art, adding that the previous installments of chimes and bagua mirrors were clearly not robust enough for our mother’s luck and that the entire apartment had to be reevaluated. Compass in one hand, map in the other, Ms Ling reminded Amma of the natal chart of the building, the directions of the windows, the zones of earth, metal, water, wood and fire, recommending an array of auspicious objects that Amma could purchase directly from Ms Ling’s shop and that these new remedies were not to be static and fixed arrangements, that if Amma was serious about pulling her life away from the upheaval of divorce and towards healing, felicity and fortune, she would have to stick to an annual regimen of shifting configurations, that a home was not a concrete thing, that the stars moved and so would the tools designated to changing Amma’s fate. It’s a kind of dance, she said, squeezing Amma’s hand. Wiping the sweat on her forehead with a dupatta, Amma nodded. Yes, yes. She would do anything! Ms Ling’s exhortations came fast as she scribbled on the map. Lo Shu by the front door, also, a rat symbol and a dragon tortoise and metal chime of six bars, outside, a coin sword and a mat or small rug to stop the Qi rushing up and out through those stairs and inside a screen to create a meandering flow for the energy. In the bathrooms, six coins each, pierced square in the center and laced together with red thread. In the living room, a small fountain at the north-facing wall and more peace lilies, money trees and bamboos for the southeast, though by this point that whole corner was full of ficus and rubber plants already. Red tassels on the doorknobs! The year was the rooster and Amma had been born under the sign of the rabbit and these two always clashed. Our mother had to be careful. 

The furniture was rearranged and though the new layout made little sense—the sofa no longer faced the TV—the Qi coming in now was at least the good kind. Qi was something Ms Ling mentioned in every sentence and in our heads we imagined a river of mist snaking through the corridors and doorways. It had a mouth, that river of mist, like a Chinese dragon and we imagined it opening wide and swallowing us up if its path was obstructed by a shoe cabinet or magazine rack or our game of pitthu. To stop Shar Chi concave Bagua mirrors at the top of the windows. Throughout the home, bowls of water, crystals of quartz, amethyst, hematite, and even more wind chimes, the map indicating the precise location for each and a timeline on when to move them around. Let your fingers ring the chimes, the sound will purify the energy. In the kitchen a yin and yang symbol. And posters of dragons and sharks in the children’s bedroom must be removed. You’re a mother of five boys, Ms Ling cautioned Amma. Such images will only increase their aggression and with their father now out of the picture you can’t be too cautious.

It was when she came into Amma’s room, however, that Ms Ling shook her head and her typically stoic face turned grave. I thought I asked you to move this last year, she said, pointing at the long mirror facing the bed. 

He wouldn’t let me, said Amma, speaking of our father, whose name she would no longer let slip onto her tongue.

Ms Ling’s eyes went wide with terror. Oh Shaheen! What a big mistake!—

—What is it?—

—It’s this mirror that did it. It’s the mirror that made him run away.

Amma sat down on the edge of the bed. But how?

For a couple it’s the worst possible thing! You see the mirror reflects the bed and when the couple appears in the mirror it indicates there are four in a bed not only two! This mirror is a ticket to inviting infidelity!

Oh god! said Amma, moving out of the way so that she would no longer be caught in the reflection. I’ll move it now!

No need dear, no need. You are single now. Leave the mirror as it is. In fact, let’s place it in the center so that there is a complete reflection. Two in a bed! That is good for you. Maybe you’ll find someone new!

Of this Amma looked unsure. It was too soon. And she was sick of men! She sought only financial security for her sons.

Still, said Ms Ling. A little attention never hurts.

*

With that Amma entered a new routine. She cleansed the coins with water according to Ms Ling’s advice and even the crystals that she would then place on the balcony to collect the yang from the sun. The locations of the tassels, symbols, chimes, water and talismans were changed every few weeks according to the calendar Ms Ling had typed up for Amma and indeed it did feel like a dance, like our home had been turned into a game where new prizes could be found under the carpets or hidden in the corners or behind the sofa. We made our own maps for these treasures and stories too which we would tell each other during the day and well into the night; about how the objects came to be; sunken pirate ships, thuggees’ loot, a defector’s booty. When Amma wasn’t looking we held the curios in our hands till their clay or metal went warm by our touch reasoning that if they were indeed full of magic maybe they would endow us too, with the glorious and unbounded powers they possessed. We were forbidden from running our fingers through the wind chimes in the living room, however, the sound was too much for Amma’s nerves and we reminded her of Ms Ling’s words, that only the sound of the chime would suppress the bad Qi. For a quick second each morning our mother ran her own fingers through the bars, then left the room to avoid having to hear the tinkling sound. She had always been sensitive to noises, ringing tones and music but Abba’s departure had made her jittery and even with this new arrangement of luck-changing ornaments, a peaceful calm did not descend upon her rigid shoulders. She looked like she was always waiting for something to happen.

*

The first to arrive was Uncle Fardeen, our next door neighbor widowed a year ago, with a rare edition of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility wrapped in brown craft paper and a bag of coffee beans from his trip to Malaysia. He knew Amma liked to read, he said, and that he’d noticed her on the balcony on Saturday afternoons with some or other book in her hands. And I’ve seen you buy the instant from the baqala downstairs, he added, handing her the beans. His face said plainly that he felt our mother was too good for Nescafe and he listed on his fingers all the other options for a strong brew. Amma shook her head. She didn’t have a percolator or even a French press. And she had no clue about this other implement he spoke of. A V60? She’d never even heard of such a thing. Uncle Fardeen laughed. Not to worry! Not to worry! Miss Shaheen I will bring you all three!

Amma twisted the corner of the dupatta in her hands. She seemed to be in a hurry to have Uncle Fardeen out of the house but the man stepped further into the living room and after noting the changes to the decor he took his place on the sofa, ankle over the knee. Since Amma didn’t have a percolator or even a French press (!) he would not say no to a good cup of chai. Amma rushed to the kitchen and returned with a tray, small cups of china, silver teaspoons and a quarter plate of zeere biscuits. We boys were told simply, from her eyes alone, to go out and play and when we were beckoned back in a half hour later Uncle Fardeen tousled our hair with his long fingers saying that he would come by soon with gifts for our mother. In the doorway, Amma frowned. She went to her room and moved the mirror so that it would no longer capture her image. Just one in a bed was fine for her! She had gotten used to it already, the unexpected gift of her independence. 

*

Then came Rehman Sir. Urdu teacher who taught at the same school Amma taught English. He took the liberty of bringing not only a bouquet of yellow roses but also, for some inexplicable reason, a week’s worth of groceries. As he bustled in through the doors, he said that he understood a single working woman might be too tired to cook at the end of the day, adding in the same breath that he was an excellent chef and that if she would grant him a brief trespass, he would love to prepare for her a pulao using a recipe he’d learnt from his own grandmother. She was from Delhi! he said, speaking of his Nanijaan. Just like Amma’s grandparents. He could tell from Amma’s Urdu. They had a shared heritage. Surely Amma would not say no to a Delhi-style pulao! He would even boil the yakhni from scratch. Amma made excuses. There was no need! She had food in the fridge and a functioning microwave and papers to mark. There was a deadline! Exam season is coming! But Rehman Sir was not to be deterred. He insisted and made himself quite at home in our kitchen, cooking and speaking verbosely of the pulao, of Delhi, of Urdu culture and its slow and tragic erosion in Pakistan because those Punjabis held all the power, not giving mind to Amma’s protests which she continued throughout in a hushed whispered tone. At the dining table he asked us boys what we thought of the rice and we confessed it was even better than Amma’s. Our mother glared at us, pressing dirham bills into our palms, telling us to go to the baqala to fetch a slab of swisscake for dessert and when we returned Rehman Sir sat in the living room telling the story of his own recent divorce. So you see, he said to our mother. They had so much in common! Even his wife ran away with a man!

*

Amma called Ms Ling and Ms Ling came with a smile on her face. Luck is on your side Shaheen! she said, sipping tea in the kitchen. The fruits of their efforts were here already! Amma said she had no need for this variety of luck. Then what was she hoping for? Only a raise at work, said Amma. So I can take care of these boys. I have the alimony but still.

A new map was drawn. Tassels were moved around, as were the chimes, coins and fountain. A three legged toad was added to the assortment outside and a laughing buddha to the living room to nudge the Qi towards channels for wealth and prosperity. This is probably the thing that did it, said Ms Ling, picking up the rose quartz crystal in Amma’s room and putting it in her tartan bag. This one’s for heart and love!

*

Then came Mr Azad, the long bearded insurance broker who had sold Abba and Amma their policy years ago. He had heard from his sister about Amma’s divorce. Amma said she had coverage from the school but the man charged in saying: One can’t be too careful! In the living room, cup of chai in hand, he narrated the different types of cover suitable for someone in our mother’s position. Or, he said, looking like he was weighing his words carefully, she could get married again. Had she considered that? Amma, going pink, said nothing to this. What was there to say! She asked about his own wife and Mr Azad said only that the woman was in Karachi recovering from lupus or lyme disease or some other illness beginning with L. He changed the subject to a more abstract conversation about how and why Islam permitted a man to take four wives. It was a Muslim man’s duty to be of some help to a woman in need. And a woman of five sons! Alone! Amma said she would manage just fine and walked him to the door while he continued speaking of the Prophet’s sunnah. Our Nabi, peace be upon him, had nine wives at one time, Mr Azad said, And we humble servants, as you know, are only permitted four but I think two is a fine number. What do you suppose? 

Amma pursed her lips in annoyance, saying quickly: One too many! Khuda hafiz!

After Mr Azad left Amma, shaking her head, moved from room to room with Ms Ling’s map in her hands. The sofa was put back to its original place in front of the TV, the rug near the door rolled up and put in the store room and the ceramic bowls of water emptied and left to dry in the dish rack. The screen by the entrance was changed in its angle so that it blocked the front door entirely and the bronze tortoise, rat symbol and Chinese dogs out the door were brought inside. Goodness knows what all those animals were plotting in their hours together! We reminded Amma of the Qi, that the dragon of mist twisting through our corridors was sure to find its path obstructed and our mother told us to hush up otherwise there would be no dinner! She called Ms Ling once again to the apartment and the thin woman arrived in a half hour with her fine eyebrows raised and the corners of her mouth twitching. Amma handed her the stones, the chimes, the coins, the tassels, saying they were bringing her trouble not peace! Ms Ling put them in her tartan bag and said she would find a way to help restore the energy around Amma to its previous state. She gave Amma a crystal of lapis lazuli, saying that our mother should keep it near her bed. It’s for protection. Till things calm down.

*

The next day, Friday afternoon, while Ms Ling and Amma had tea in the living room, Farhana Aunty rang our doorbell, standing outside the door with a suitcase. She owned the tailoring shop Amma went to for her shalwar kameezain and she had new styles to share. Brand new from Karachi! And Lahore! You won’t find embroidered prints like this anywhere else in the city! she said, wheeling the bag inside. She displayed her wares in an elaborate, flamboyant fashion, flicking out the dupattas allowing the fabric to fall across Amma’s knees so that she could assess for herself the softness of the cloth. In one breath Farhana Aunty spoke of the suit sets, the fine stones set into the design, the delicate mirrorwork, the ribbons at the edges, in the other she spoke of her brother, Burhan, recently a doctor, of the heart, did Amma know? Amma shook her head and cast a sideways glance at Ms Ling. She didn’t know. He’s here now, said Farhana Aunty. After such a long education! You know it takes years and years to become a doctor of the heart. And of course, because of all the books, residencies and learning, he’s remained all this time a single man. Can you believe it! He is handsome but coming along in age. Farhana Aunty took out a photo and placed it in Amma’s hands. Thank your good fortune Shaheen! He has seen you already, at the Pakistani Social Club function last month. And you know what he said to me? He said, There goes my future wife! What say Shaheen? You probably never thought you would marry a doctor!

Ms Ling looked at Amma and Amma looked at us. The Qi dragon of mist was here with its mouth open and there was no turning it out.