Chapter 6: Dawaa Ki Dukaan
The storm broke on Friday evening. The sky, which had been a sullen sheet of iron all afternoon, finally split open just as Omar called to say he’d be stuck at the hospital. A complex surgery had run long. He sounded exhausted, his voice crackling with static down the line. “Don’t wait up for me, okay? Just save some food.”
“Of course, jaan,” Zarine said into the phone, her voice a soothing melody. “We’ll manage.” She hung up and turned to the quiet living room. “Papa won’t be home for dinner.”
Suhu, curled on the large sectional sofa with a textbook, merely grunted. Usman, positioned in his armchair by the window, watched the rain lash the glass. The atmosphere was thick, stagnant. The confrontation in the laundry room two days prior hung between them all, a silent, unresolved chord.
Dinner was a quiet affair of leftover curry and rice. Zarine moved between the kitchen and the table, serving, clearing, her movements efficient and silent. The only sounds were the clink of cutlery and the drumming of the rain.
It was as they were finishing that Suhu let out a sharp gasp.
She doubled over in her chair, a hand flying to her lower abdomen. “Ow.”
Zarine paused, a plate in her hand. “What’s wrong, beta?”
“Cramps,” Suhu hissed, her face screwing up in genuine-looking pain. “Really bad ones. Ugh, I shouldn’t have had that cold yogurt.” She pushed her chair back, standing up awkwardly. She was wearing the same tiny shorts from that first morning, the fabric strained against her thighs. “I need to lie down.”
She hobbled to the living room sofa and collapsed onto it, curling onto her side. She let out a low moan, pulling a cushion over her face. Her legs, long and bare, shifted restlessly. One knee drew up, then the other, her posture an open, vulnerable display of discomfort.
Usman focused intently on his last bite of rice.
Zarine sighed, a sound of weary domestic concern. She began clearing the table. “It’s the weather, too. The pressure change. I have some of that strong balm, the one that heats up. It’s in the cupboard in the hall. It will help relax the muscles.”
She said this to the room, not to anyone in particular. The clatter of plates from the kitchen sink followed.
Usman sat frozen. He understood the command. The trap. He could stay in his chair, ignore it, and be the uncaring elder. Or he could move, and walk into the muzzle of the gun.
Suhu groaned again, louder this time. It was a raw, uncomfortable sound. “Mummy, it really hurts.”
“I’m washing up, Suhu! My hands are covered in oil. The balm is in the hall cupboard. The small brown jar.” Zarine’s voice was singsong, reasonable, laced with the faintest edge of impatience. “Someone get it for her, please.”
The ‘someone’ hung in the air. Usman’s jaw tightened. He placed his napkin neatly beside his plate and pushed his chair back. The walk to the hall cupboard felt like a march to a gallows. He found the small, unlabeled brown jar. It felt heavy, toxic, in his hand.
He stood at the edge of the living room, the jar held before him like an offering to some pagan altar. Suhu had turned onto her back, one arm flung over her eyes. The cushion had fallen to the floor. The hem of her shorts had ridden up, the smooth, taut skin of her inner thighs gleaming in the lamplight. Her legs were parted just enough, a natural response to abdominal pain.
“Here,” he said, his voice gravel.
“I can’t move, Dada,” she whined, peeking out from under her arm. “Just… put some on?Please? It’s like a knife.”
He stood there, a statue of reluctance. From the kitchen doorway, reflected in the dark window, he saw Zarine. She was leaning against the frame, a tea towel in her hands, watching.Not helping. Just watching. Her expression was one of detached maternal sympathy, but her eyes were sharp, analytical lasers pinning him to the spot.
He had no ally here. No escape.
Slowly, stiffly, he unscrewed the lid. A pungent, medicinal smell filled the space around him—camphor, menthol, cloves. He dipped two fingers into the greasy, brown paste. It was cold.
He knelt beside the sofa. The action sent a bolt of pain through his own knees, a humbling counterpoint to the youth sprawled before him. He held his greasy fingers over her thigh, hesitant. “Where?”
“Just… here,” she murmured, gesturing vaguely to the creamy skin of her inner thigh, high up, near the edge of the shorts. “It’s, like, a shooting pain down my leg.”
He touched her.
The shock of it was electric. His calloused, rough fingertips met the unbelievable softness of her skin. She was warm. He applied the balm in a small, clumsy circle, his touch clinical, hurried.
“You have to rub it in, Dada,” Suhu said, her voice tense. “Otherwise it doesn’t work. It just sits there cold.”
A low sound, almost a growl, escaped him. He began to rub. The greasy balm warmed instantly under the friction of his skin on hers. The smell intensified, spicy and invasive. His fingers moved in small, hard circles, his knuckles brushing against the frayed edge of her shorts. He could feel the firm muscle of her thigh beneath the soft surface, the heat of her body seeping into his arthritic joints. His own breathing became ragged, loud in his own ears.
He dared a glance at her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. Was it in pain? Or something else? He couldn’t tell. He looked away, focusing on a weave in the sofa fabric beside her hip. His fingers trembled. He could not stop them. The trembling traveled up his wrist, into his forearm.
He was acutely aware of Zarine’s silent presence in the doorway. He could feel her watching the back of his head, watching his trembling hand on her daughter’s skin. This was her canvas, and she was painting with his shame.
“A little higher,” Suhu whispered.
His hand froze. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. He did not move.
“Dada, please. The pain is up here.” Her hand came down, her own fingers—slim, polished, cool—brushing his as she guided his greasy hand an inch higher. The edge of his thumb now pressed against the very seam of the shorts, against the soft, giving flesh where her leg met her torso.
A violent tremor shook him. He snatched his hand back as if burned, scrambling to his feet. The jar of balm slipped from his other hand and hit the carpet with a dull thud, rolling under the sofa.
“I… it should work now,” he stammered, backing away. The pungent smell was all over him, on his skin, in his nostrils. It felt like a contamination.
Suhu opened her eyes. They were clear, alert, utterly devoid of pain. “Yeah,” she said flatly, stretching her legs out. “Feels warmer already. Thanks.”
She didn’t look at him. She looked past him, to the kitchen doorway, and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug.
Usman turned. Zarine was gone. The doorway was empty. But her absence was more accusatory than her presence had been. It said the performance was over. The point had been made.
He fled to the bathroom, locking the door. He scrubbed his hands raw under scalding water, the soap foaming white, but the smell of the balm clung to him, intertwined with the memory of her warmth, her softness, the terrifying vulnerability he had been forced to exploit. He scrubbed until his skin was red and burning.
Later, in the silent dark of his room, the rain still tapping on the window, he understood the full horror of Zarine’s design. It wasn't just about humiliating him with a glance, or a glimpse. It was about making him an active participant. She was making his hands instruments of her will, staining him with a complicity no bath could wash away. The tremble in his fingers wasn't just age or nerves. It was the tremor of a man realizing he is no longer just a victim, but now, irrevocably, a part of the sin.