Sometimes, I hate being a mother. My son’s face floated before my eyes and I felt burning guilt and shame for harbouring such a thought. For the past seventeen years, ever since I became a mother, my mind swung between two feelings—guilt and resentment. I had quit on my dreams of becoming a writer, I had lost all purpose and happiness in my life. One day at a time, I lost a little bit of myself, until I was not even recognizable to myself anymore.
“Rabia, I loved reading your comments on everyone’s writing.” Suddenly, I was jolted back to the present when I heard my name. It was Payal, the moderator of my Writer’s Club. She continued “It had such depth, richness of insight,”Payal said. “Would you like to read out what you have written today?”
“No,” I said quietly. I could feel everyone looking at me. I had been coming to this Club for five months now, but I had never spoken out. I only listened and gave written feedback to others. I tried writing, but the words came in short phrases, never a complete coherent story.
Payal turned to Shauna, the American lady in the Writer’s Club. “Shauna, you?”
“No,” she said. I was startled. I had been coming to this Club for nearly five months now. I had never heard Shauna not wanting to read. She wasn’t her usual self today. Dark circles under her eyes, and she wasn’t smiling or talking like she usually did on other days.
Among all the women in my Writer’s Club, I liked Shauna the best. She was a Pilates instructor by day and an aspiring writer by night. She was around fiftyish and liked to write poetry. Her hair was long, once blonde, now with streaks of silver—she was lithe like a gazelle, dressed in jeans and fitted white shirts, and had the most open winning smile. She seemed to be free and happy, in a way I could never be.
***
Firdaus was a provider, “a good husband” as everyone would call it. But he barely spoke with me. After my marriage, I found that I had moved from a bustling lively haveli of twenty family members in Karachi to a grave-like silent one-bedroom apartment in Singapore. He didn’t like socializing, so we hardly ever went to the potlucks and Eid Dawats organized by the Pakistani families in Singapore. Initially, some families invited us, but slowly the invitations dwindled since Firdaus was reluctant to invite people back, always complaining that it was an unnecessary expense.
I was so young and romantic, still looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses. Having a baby seemed like the pinnacle of romance, the ticket to acceptance by my dashing husband and his family. But having a baby changed me in ways I had never imagined. While bringing up Roshan, I perhaps cried as much as he did. Baby Roshan did not sleep well at night, so I woke up three times every night. During the mornings, I had to take care of all of the baby’s responsibilities, and when he slept, I cooked and cleaned. I had no help, no moment of respite and no one to share my loneliness with.
Firdaus was very particular about cleanliness and how food was cooked. Though he didn’t say much, his disapproval was often obvious in the food he left behind in a plate, or his refusal to acknowledge me for a few days for small mistakes— when I left the geyser on all day, by mistake. I was intimidated by him and worked hard to make sure that I did not annoy him. While my house sparkled and gleamed, the light inside me slowly dimmed.
For ten years after Roshan’s birth, I went through a string of miscarriages, until finally Firdaus declared, “I don’t think you have it in you.” Our moments of intimacy dwindled, as my loneliness deepened. I immersed myself in raising Roshan, trying to find meaning in being a mother—but somehow, it wasn’t enough for the emptiness I felt inside of me. I yearned for completeness, I longed for freedom.
I used to love writing. As a teenager, I filled pages and pages of journals with my thoughts. I was a quiet child and the written word was my friend. When I first moved to Singapore, I filled new notebooks with my observations and experiences in the new country, excited with the glittering malls, grocery stores that stocked unfamiliar vegetables, beautiful women who wore tight dresses and shorts. I wrote down everything. But once Roshan came, there was no time to write, and with every passing day, my interest in writing gradually faded. I lost my ability to write, just as I lost my verve for life.
That day, Shauna and I took the same train home. “Do you mind if I join you on your ride home?,”
“Of course not,” I said. Sometimes, Shawna spoke fast and I had to listen carefully to understand her accent.
“Which station do you get off at?” she asked.
“Pasir Ris,” I said.
“Oh! That’s an hour away! You travel that far for Writing Club.” I nodded. I didn’t tell Shauna that I might have gone even if it was two hours away. Ever since Roshan started going to Junior College, I had so much time on my hands. I finished cooking by 10AM, and after that, the day stretched on meaninglessly ahead of me. Firdaus had started coming so late from work, Roshan locked himself in his room even when he was at home—was I even needed at all? Sometimes, I wondered if I should just go back to Karachi once Roshan left for university.
I found the Writing Club through an online search. Firdaus allowed me to go only because it was an all-women’s group. I wasn’t writing much, but still being surrounded by women who loved words gave me a strange cocoon of comfort.
I looked at Shauna who was looking out of the window, a tear streaming down her face.
“Shauna, are you ok?,” I asked.
“Oh…just going through a bit of a struggle on the home-front,” she said.
I hesitated a little and asked, “You want to share?”
She sighed. Then she said, “Two years ago, my younger son passed away. He was only nineteen.”
“How?!?” The word flung out of my mouth before I could stop myself. Immediately, I felt like I shouldn’t have asked. I definitely didn’t want to increase her pain by digging into her wounds.
“Well, he went to bed at night. In the morning, when I went to wake him up, he was gone. He had a massive heart attack in his sleep.” I was surprised that she was sharing this personal information with me. Despite my admiration of her, we were not more than acquaintances. But again, sometimes, it is easier to confide in a stranger than to someone close to you.
“I am so, so sorry,” I said. “You are always so calm and cheerful. I had no idea,” I fumbled for the right words.
“Well, I have to be. My elder son is suffering from severe depression ever since my younger one passed away. He was very close to his brother, he just hasn’t been able to get over the shock. He has been diagnosed with PTSD. If I don’t dress up every morning and force myself to get out and about, I might not be able to bear all this.”
I drew a sharp breath—I could never have imagined what she was going through.
Shauna said, “For the past four years, I don’t know how many therapists I have taken him to. And he has tried to kill himself twice. So either my husband or I have to always be on the watch. It’s really exhausting.”
She paused. I said nothing. I felt a faint ache in my heart and Roshan’s smiling face flashed before my eyes.
Then she said, “Last night he locked himself in his room and wouldn’t let us in for 2 hours…I nearly had a nervous breakdown.” Her voice shook. “I don’t know how much longer I can go on. ”I always imagined that Shauna had the most perfect, privileged life—but the joy she showed the world on the surface gave me no inkling of the depths of her pain. I had taken her cheerful demeanor at face-value and made assumptions about her entire life.
I reached out and gently put my hand on her arm. I couldn’t help myself. I just didn’t have the words to comfort her. Her train-stop was approaching. She stood up and instead of the lithe and talented pilates instructor, I saw a mother struggling to cope with the losses in her life.
I said quickly, “Shauna, would you like to come over for tea to my house after next week’s Writing Club?”
She smiled and nodded. “Yes, that will be nice. Thanks so much. And thanks for listening,” she said.
The conversation with Shauna shook me to my bones. I thought about Roshan all the way home. I baked his favourite chocolate cake and waited for him. Maybe I was so caught up in my own misery and loneliness that I took my motherhood for granted. I had fulfilled my duties towards him perfectly and I loved him from the depths of my heart, but did I hold myself back in some way? Being a mother had taken away the time from the dreams I could have pursued, but what can possibly replace the joy of my son?
And my tenuous relationship with Firdaus… Perhaps we had both accepted that we don’t love one another. I did not know how to solve that within my heart. But he was the father of my son—we were partners in raising our son and Firdaus was doing a good job of it. Maybe that is just how life is sometimes. Maybe I should just accept things as is—every heartbreak and every beauty that came my way, just as it is, without always craving for less pain, hankering after more joy.
That evening, after a long time, there was a lot of laughter in my house. Roshan and I sat at the dining table, eating spoonfuls of chocolate cake, while he taught me how to play a game on my smartphone. Firdaus got back from work and sat with us, his usual quiet self. For the first time, I did not grudge him his silence. Roshan hugged me before he went and locked himself in his room. I hugged him back and held him for a long, long time.
Tonight, I felt free to love and I felt free to write.
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