Desi Life Insurance (an excerpt from an upcoming short story)

            When the crab apple tree had first been planted, Amy, his eldest daughter, was about to be married. The landscaping had just been put in at that time, flowerbed borders clearly defined, mulch fresh and still woody. The after-party had been in the garden and the inlaws were impressed and cooperative, back then, joking and laughing on the patio with a plate of mutton biryani and club sandwiches. Shaun held the twisted hose over the gravel, putting his fingers over the lip to spread the trickle of water as wide as possible.

He had spent his life-savings on his children and thought they would be here for him, now, at this stage. Amy was ok. She checked up on him, occasionally, dropping by with a bottle of almond milk or a small plastic container of chicken curry, forgetting that he didn’t have any rice cooked to go with it. Becca and Barrah still expected him to be dishing out for them, sending him long emails filled with complaints about their ex-husbands, children, bosses and neighbours.

It wasn’t that he had thought of them, in childhood, as a life insurance policy, as in, he did what he did for them earnestly, as any father would do. But it was just a matter of decency, wasn’t it? You take care of your parents when they are old. That’s how life works.

The water stopped and Shawn looked down to see his own foot clamped down on the hose. It made him sad to see his own shoes, old and worn. When his own father had brought them to this country, Shawn remembered his father wearing two different sizes of shoes, all that was available at the Landa Bazaar. Those shoes became a family gathering. Shawn grew up staring at them respectfully whenever his father told him how to live and how to prepare for death. When Shawn’s children were old enough, he took out the shoes from the old trunk in the basement where he had kept them carefully to pass on the sense of responsibility to his children. And now here he was, in this big house, alone.

***

As she drove up to the house, the familiar palpitations started. She stopped at the end of the street, to catch her breath. She called Yahya.

“Amy, don’t give him so much power. You are there out of the goodness of your heart, now just focus on your own intention. You can’t be wrecking yourself like this.”

“But you don’t understand, I actually feel rotten. I always imagine how Mom would react seeing him there, in a stained undershirt, looking through old pictures all the time.” Her underpants felt too small and wet. She wriggled in her seat and squeezed her eyes shut. It was easy for Yahya to say this, he hardly ever visited her dad. For that matter, he hardly visited his own parents, contenting himself with Eid and occasional birthdays. But both his parents were alive and did things together. Not like AbuJi.

“He tries to make you feel guilty. He knows you so well.”

“Well, I do.”

“I can’t do anything about it then.”

“Why are we fighting?”

“I’m not. You are.”

The front door opened. She hadn’t even started up the driveway.  When her mother had been alive, AbuJi mocked her for opening the door before the bell was rung. She turned the car off and clutched her bag to her belly. He had mocked her mother for everything: for the way the table was set, for unintentionally wearing her shirt inside out, for being uneducated, for her child-rearing and even for her cancer-bearing genes.

“I brought you some chicken I made. I hope you like it.”

“Shukran,” he swiped at his nose with his hand and then flung something out the front door. “Aren’t you going to come in, or you have to pick the kids up from somewhere?”

“Yes, of course.”

She followed him into the kitchen. A large pot was on the stove with chicken bones inside, boiling up into a greasy cloud that clung to the chandelier. God! Every time she saw the house, it made her angry. He wouldn’t give it up.

***

            Yahya put his phone into a drawer and tried to complete the chapter. He couldn’t let his wife, her family and their neurotic doubts destroy his own life. This was the textbook on surgery, Robbins, used internationally by surgical residents and he had been asked to write this section. It was his chance to contribute to an important debate on new technologies. Ultimately, he had to do this for Amy and his children. If he answered another call from her right now, it would be more of the same. Even the therapist had said as much. Amy needed to get a grip on herself, stop pleasing her dad and own up to what did she with her own life. She was acting like a fob, worshipping her father and her ancestors and their rubbish about filial piety. He knew how that worked. It was just a way to keep wealth in the family.