Amma and the Clock

Tick tick tick….

Tick tick tick…tick..tick….tick………..tick ………….tick , there it was, the clock was dying on me again. I was watching it die, and although it was lifeless, the dull, chocking ticks made the death look so painful.
Tick….Chuck! that was that, not one more tick, not one more rrrrriiiiinnnggg rrrrrrriiiinggg that would wake me from my slumber.

"1947 mein layee thi apney saath, you weren’t even born then" was what Amma would say every few days when the clock stopped moving its mechanical arms around.
Amma would shake it, rub it, even talk to it, but nothing would make the clock bat an eye lid or give any indication of life. There it was, dead until someone brought it to life again by putting in new batteries.

"Arey ye batteries ab nahin miltin" was what the man at the grocery store would tell us time and time again. That’s when I would hop to the nearest museum or antique collector to see if he had any. They always had one, inevitably tucked under a huge collection of disposables.

"This clock has woken me up, your grandfather, your father and your cousins, your uncles and now you" said Amma proud of its faithfulness and longevity.

"Its about time we changed the clock Amma, there are better models, even newer ones with less annoying alarm rings" I resisted

Convincing Amma to throw away the clock or give it away was often more difficult than announcing the death of a close relative. Nearly a centenarian, with her limited vision and memory, she knew how many people lived in the house , had a firm hold on the household income and never delegated her administration powers to any one.

She had many memories of the partition era, and many more of her life in India before that. I often heard her narrate her life as if she had reigned as a princess for several years before being thrown into exile on this part of the continent. A dynamic regal existence once had eventually amounted to nothing. Her love for Pakistan was intense and passionate but she often flirted with the idea of going back to India to be with her ageing brethren.

"You can abandon places, walls and streets but you cannot abandon memories" she would say as if she had tried several times to abandon them but had failed.

She spoke fondly of my grandfather who taught her how to read and write Urdu and Farsi when she came to Pakistan. She had three children then, and came to Karachi with a swollen belly waiting for the arrival of her fourth son and eventually gave birth to a sickly child in a refugee camp near the Karachi port. Years after that she would cry to go back to her family that she had left behind. By the time Abba had started making a reasonably good income in his printing press, Amma’s youth had been replaced by maturity, white streaks of hair had overshadowed her the thick black locks and her flawless skin had been filled with fine lines and wrinkles on the edges. My grandfather and Amma had 12 children, 5 of whom are alive today.

Now she was over 90 and Abba had died a couple of years ago at the age of 95. Amongst all other things that kept her busy, she was happiest with two things, her clock and her pigeons.

She would wake up every morning before dawn to offer her prayers which would continue past sunrise. The sun would come out with Ammas loud chanting of the verses of the Quran in the background. Then I would hear her wear her chappals slowly and carefully, one foot at a time. She would glide her steps pausing every few moments to the verandah where she would throw a handful of grains and rice to her pigeons.

"Äoo Aao Aao Aao….ch .ch .ch .ch"

They would hover around her for a while, find their bearings and descend in a dance to nip the grains or rice and satiate their appetite. There was a round bowl of water at the corner of the verandah, in serving, in case they were thirsty too.

Now two years later nothing has changed, just that a lot has changed. Amma passed away in her sleep a few days ago, just the way she wanted to die, and the pigeons have never visited after that. I live in the same room, and under the twirling wings of the fan above me, I feel heat ascend from my toes to my stomach and then to my heart. It’s so hot in December I wonder, what’s wrong with the damn fan?

I open my eyes, to see Bua ji fan me violently with her blue and yellow hand fan and Paro put small wet towels on my forehead and then quickly replace them with other wet towels. I look around to see the whole family, well whatever of the family that could fit in to my tiny vertical room.

"What’s wrong? What happened? I ask confused and somewhat disturbed by the amusement I was causing. The glaring, concerned eyes of my relatives were far from reassuring.

"Bukhar tez hey, now it’s better, just an hour ago you were as hot as a tawa, you fell in the veranda so we picked you up and brought you here" said Bua ji putting her fan down.

"I don’t remember" I say somewhat confused, somewhat embarrassed

Amma’s death has left a huge void in our lives, especially mine. There is no one, who will lie in the bed next to me and talk to me in the dead of the night. No one who will wake up in the middle of the night and cover me up with the blanket that had clumsily made its way to my knees. All I had of her now was a heart full of love, a mind overflowing with memories that I was finding hard to contain, a growing anticipation to know if she was going to be safe and her clock.

The crowd slowly dispersed at being told that I was feeling better and I was left in my room to rest. I turned to my side and wept in my pillow. It was one of those days where the presence of my family made me immensely lonely. May be I could handle it better if they weren’t there. I sobbed till I felt sleepy and exhausted. Till my tears had had enough and I lost the point.

I rubbed my face across my pillow and glanced at the clock.

"Tick ..tick…tick…………tick…R 30;…………tick………R 30;.tick"

"The clock is dying on me again, I have to change the batteries tomorrow" I think to myself and fall in to a deep, comforting sleep.