Page 19 of If I Loved You Less
I mean, what a brat! (It’s no wonder his kids are brats, too.)
Next, I go to see if Phuppo needs any help, but when I enter the kitchen, Zeeshan Uncle is there with her. They are both speaking in hushed tones over the roast chicken as he bastes it, their cheeks rosy as they laugh.
What a sight of domestic intimacy. It makes me want to cry. (Out of happiness for them of course. Not at all out of loneliness.)
I feel a little pang in my chest. (Because of how sweet it is.)
Not wanting to intrude, I go back to the family room, resolving to spend time with the babies.
“Humaira Phuppo,” my four-year-old niece, Haniya, says approaching me. Her pigtails swing as she walks. “How you sleep?”
“What?” I ask, sitting on the sofa and leaning forward so we are eye level.
“How you sleep?” she asks again. “Like this? Like this?” She demonstrates different positions, then waits for my reply.
“Oh,” I laugh. “I sleep like this.” I demonstrate, and she nods, cataloging the information.
“Baji sleep like this,” she informs me. Then she begins showing me how the rest of her siblings sleep, and Naadia joins in, after spending time with Asif.
“God, Haniya,” Naadia says. “Are you spying on everyone while they sleep? What a little weirdo.”
We laugh. Haniya asks Naadia how she sleeps, and after gaining the information, she is off again, skipping and pigtails swinging, probably to ask more people.
“Noor Phuppo brought meethe chawal,” Naadia tells me. I groan. Noor Phuppo has diabetes, which means she barely adds sugar into the sweet rice dish, but insists we all eat it anyways, which of course we do, or the eldest phuppo would get offended. One never upsets one’s phuppos; it’s a cardinal rule of survival in a Pakistani family.
“At least we have my pies to push it down, later,” I say.
“At least.”
Then Naadia is off as well, going to go chat with our bhabis. I could join her, but I’m not really in the mood. She has always been the loquacious one, so I never got into the habit of being so talkative.
There cannot be two talkative sisters; someone must do the listening. I have always been happy to listen. Even as kids. Most nights, after the lights were off and we were told to sleep by Mama, Naadia would last about thirty seconds before sliding through our connecting bathroom to come to my room.
“Move over,” she’d whisper, elbowing me. I would shift over in my bed, making room for her as she slipped under the covers with me and told me every single little thing about all of her friends and classmates. I always loved listening.
After an hour or so, she’d finally slow down, speech slurring from tiredness, and if I had a comment, she’d tap my mouth with her hand, saying, “Shh, let’s sleep now, I’m tired.”
I didn’t mind. She needed me to listen, so I would.
I miss those days. The simplicity of it.
With a sigh, I go to pick up my baby cousin, Aizah. She’s eight months old, chubby, and so cute I want to mush her cheeks. She doesn’t yet know how to crawl, though, so I resolve to teach her tonight.
“Come on Aizah, we can conquer this together,” I say, setting her on the floor in a crawling position. I grab some chocolate and give her a taste, to which her eyes widen with excitement. “Come on!” I sit across from her and goad her with the chocolate, and she reaches for it with her hands but does not move to actually get it. “Come on, don’t be lazy!”
“Torturing babies now, are we?” a deep voice asks. I look up from the floor to see Fawad, his dark eyes glittering with amusement. He’s wearing a black suit with a crisp white shirt and skinny black tie, as if he’s just walked off from an important meeting on Wall Street.
“I am trying to teach her how to crawl,” I say, turning back to the baby. “Look she’s almost got it!”
Aizah makes as if to move her legs, then falls onto her face. She lets out a cry.
“Dear god, stop tormenting the poor child,” Fawad says, crouching down to pick her up. He stands and easily holds her with one arm, using his other hand to bop her nose. I stand up and watch, smiling fondly. I adore babies.
Fawad bops her nose again and she stops crying immediately, instead fascinated by his glasses.
“Oh no you don’t.” Fawad ducks to avoid her grabby little hands, and she giggles, but after another failed attempt, she gets fussy and starts to cry again, trying to launch herself out of Fawad’s arms.
“I know what she needs,” I say, holding out my arms for her. Fawad hands her over, and I go to sit on the sofa, Aizah sitting on my lap, her little head resting against my heart. Fawad sits beside me and watches as I massage Aizah’s legs. After a few moments, she relaxes, sinking against me.
