Petals of Hope

“As salaatu khairun min an noum, As salaatu khairun min an noum.”

The muezzin’s Fajr call eased Zulekha out of her sleep. After failing to wake her husband who was snoring, Zulekha shook her head and made wudu with the cold tap water. She shook the shoulders of her grown son curled up on the bed in the living room. But he too was unresponsive.

“Oh Lord, give me strength to be patient with my men-folk even as You are,” Zulekha sighed wound her dupatta around her head and shook out the prayer mat. As she bowed down into ruku and then into sajda, Zulekha felt the familiar pain in her knees and stifled a groan. Her Creator surely knew that old age was catching up to her. Bent down in sajda, Zulekha whispered into the dark, “Oh Lord, help me to be patient with the pains of old age, and give me the strength to continue for my family. Please don’t turn me into one of those helpless, crazed, ill-tempered dadi-ammas that lurk in the corners of their children’s houses.”

She finished her prayer and glanced outside the window to check that sunrise had not begun. Zulekha tried waking her husband and son a second time. They arose, reluctantly, grumbling and complaining about leaving their warm beds while splashing themselves with cold tap water.

Zulekha, meanwhile, walked into the kitchen and set the tea kettle on to boil so that their tea would be ready when they finished praying Fajr. In the dark, she could just make out the flowers she had clipped from the garden and placed in a glass jar on the table.
Her husband Ghulam sat down at the kitchen table and spread margarine on a leftover roti from last night’s dinner. Soon he would be off to his work as chauffeur for the Hassan family. He winced as he thought of his imminent duty of dropping the Hassan children off at their various schools around Deira.

“They must put strange chemicals in the children’s breakfast, the way those naughty kids scream and jump and fight every morning!” Ghulam muttered aloud.

He surprised both himself and Zulekha, who was standing with her back turned as she cooked eggs for her son, Ashraf. Where was that boy? No doubt he was shaving with extra care, but for whom? She suddenly began to worry.

“Jaan”, Zulekha drawled, as she turned around to face Ghulam, “You remember what our own four were like as children? They all acted like little monkeys, and were always crying and pleading to be kept out of school.”

“Yes, that is so. But at my age, I cannot bear their screams while I am trying to drive them safely and avoid the crazy hooligans on the road. Don’t you dream of returning to Pakistan and living with our daughters’ families?”

“I do, Jaan, but remember our daughters have little ‘monkeys’ running around their houses too!”

Ashraf walked in moodily and sat down, careful not to crease his shirt or trousers. No one respected an a/c repairman whose clothes were wrinkled. Zulekha gave him a smile tinged with badly camouflaged worry as she handed him the plate of eggs.

“Thanks, Ma”, he muttered before scooping into the plate with a handful of last night’s roti. Ashraf was so desperate to save enough money to achieve his future that he rarely took a break for lunch, even to buy a frugal one. That’s why he relished his morning plate of eggs.

“Slow down son, there will be enough units for you to install and fix today,” Ghulam joked as he tied his own shoes and headed for the door.

Zulekha followed him leave with her eyes, knowing that in a few moments, Ashraf, and then she would exit the house for their various jobs too. She sat down at the table drinking her tea and eating last night’s roti with margarine and her own rose petal jam. Zulekha’s thoughts shifted from the internal strife of the Hassan family that she would once again absorb as one of their family house-maids, to her beloved flower garden. Impulsively, she put down her tea and stood up abruptly from her chair. A sharp pain darted down her legs but the inviting vision of sunlight screaming brightly beyond the kitchen door was equally distracting. She pushed it open.

Every morning Zulekha visited her garden; a small plot of bare earth wedged between the concrete house and the paving. It was now over-run by climbing chili and bougainvillea plants studded with dainty white, blazing fuchsia flowers and clumps of roses. At their feet was a well-ordered border of petunias, mint and coriander plants. Today, her heart’s worries about Ashraf, were relieved by the sight of the yellow roses that were just beginning to unfurl their tight buds.

She leaned against the doorway staring at them and inspired by their beauty began a silent du’a: “Mashaa’Allah, look at how prettily you open up. You roses have beauty at every stage of your life, and Allah (SWT) alone decides when you will fully blossom and whether you will end up in my jam or as food for the insects. O Allah (SWT), I know that children are the same. You give them beauty at every stage and it is only the truly wise parents who can see the beauty of their children even as they seem headed towards grim uncertainty. Only You, Creator of the flowers and plants in my garden as well as of me and my family, know how my Ashraf will fare. Would it not be wise of me to leave my worries and instead increase my remembrance of You. I leave the care of my family to You who has power over all Your Creation.”

Devotion encompasses many forms, and Zulekha was thankful to Allah (SWT) that her work in the garden and meditation on the beautiful flowers always reinforced her connection with her Lord.

By Aisha Hanif