WHEN ANGELS BLEED

I stared at the ceiling. The paint was peeling off, leaving it naked. The memory of painting it with Imaan pricked my chest. I blinked hard. Gathering up my willpower, I pulled myself up on my feet. My eyes went to the notepad on the table, to the scribbling and aggression with which the words had been scrawled on it. I decided against making a second attempt and walked towards the door, passing the white suit I was to wear today. I stepped out. Cold, strangely comforting air greeted me. I decided to go to my mother’s room, to check up on her.

When I entered, I saw her sitting on the bed, terror evident on her face. “Hey, ma. You okay?” Her lips trembled as she tried to speak. I looked at her encouragingly. “He… He was here. He wanted to… hurt me. I screamed… I screamed so loudly.” I sat down beside her and whispered, “Mom, he’s not here. He’s not coming back. You are safe. I will not let anyone hurt you.” She whimpered. I held her tightly in my arms, as she rocked back and forth.

I tucked her into bed, and promised to come back with tea. I walked to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. My father had walked out on us ten years ago, and I remember that I had thanked God, for being merciful. That very night, I had woken up to my mother’s screams. When I had entered her room, I found her thrashing against her blanket. My steps had frozen and I stared, as my mother, after bearing the brunt of my father’s brutality for eight years, broke down.

A week after the first nightmare, my aunt came to visit. She asked me to be strong. I was not to mention my mother’s condition to anyone. She would take care of everything else. My mother did not leave her room for months, and the hired caretaker, Marie, helped her eat, bathe and dress. Almost four years later, when I was about eleven, I realised that my mother’s siblings were funding my household and my education. My sole contribution during those initial years was that I became somewhat good at handling her nightmares.

I was broken out of the reverie by the smell of burning toast. I took it out from the toaster and forced myself to eat. The tea was ready, so I poured it into the blue mug that read, ‘Best Mom in the World’ and sprinted to the front porch to pick up the newspaper, before carrying the tea and a packet of butter cookies to my mother. She had reached the stage where she was able to eat herself, provided there was supervision. While she ate, I read out a few spicy news items, in the hope of making her smile. She did not.

I had just washed the utensils when the door opened and Marie came in, hanging her coat behind the door. “Noticed the weather, Jamie? The Sun is beating down on us.”

“Funny it should be this sunny today,” I murmured.

She turned to look at me, her hazel eyes sad. “What time is it scheduled?”

“Noon. I’m going to get dressed.” It did not take me long to bathe and put on the suit. I stared at myself in the mirror. Had Imaan been here, she would have said, “White is not your colour. You look like a wilted flower, and besides, white is the colour of death.” I pushed the thought out of my mind and went to say goodbye to my mother. I told her I was going to a school dance, in the fear of sending her into relapse by telling the truth. I left before my expression gave anything away.

Imaan’s house was close-by. It took me ten minutes to cover the distance, as always. I noticed that the men were outside, in the garden, while most women were inside. Everybody was dressed in stark white clothes. Imaan’s mother saw me before I saw her, and came over to talk. “How are you holding up?” I was amazed at how she managed to care about me, when her pain was greater. “Not so good, auntie. You?”

“Keeping it together. Bearing the whispers. Oh, and, you can give it. Around 12:45.” I nodded and went to sit on a lone chair, next to the rose bushes. A few minutes later, Imaan’s younger sister, Aisha, walked up to me. “Hey, Jamie. Can I hug you?” The pain on her face made me ache. I pulled her into a bear-hug. She settled down on my lap, and played with my tie. Neither of us spoke.  

My trance-like state was broken by her mother’s voice.

“Can I have everyone’s attention? Before the men take her body for burial, Jamie would like to say something.”

I walked to a spot where everybody could hear me. Their gazes felt penetrating and discomforting. I focussed on Aisha, who was looking at me with soft, brown eyes.

“Hi, everyone. I’m Jamie. I was, I am, Imaan’s best friend. I know that eulogies are not a part of the Muslim culture but when we were eleven, Imaan had said that she wanted me to speak at her funeral. I spent hours, yesterday, crafting the perfect speech, but I could not. How can I say goodbye to someone who made my own life worth living? Imaan was a blessing, for me and for this world. If she asked to return to God, then we must have failed her. Those of you who know my family would know that I have had a troubled childhood. However, no one but Imaan knew that when my father left, my mother was left so traumatised by what had been done to her, that she became incapacitated.” I heard a few gasps.

“The lies spun by my family to explain my mother’s seclusion from society were an attempt to hide her distress. Did I raise myself? No, Imaan raised me. A girl, my age, with hair in pigtails adopted me and made sure I was never alone. I held my mother when she had her nightmares. Imaan held me when I had mine. She saved her birthday presents and dropped them on my doorstep on Christmas Eve. And today, it has broken me to have not been there for her, when she needed me. She was too selfless to show the mental agony that she must have been going through and I was too selfish to notice it myself.

When Imaan was found, I felt the same helplessness that I experience when I see my mother scream during her nightmares. I wish it had been considered acceptable to talk about mental health issues. Perhaps, I could have regained my mother and not lost my best friend. I know that suicide is a condemnable act for you. You look down on Imaan for taking her own life. But, don’t angels bleed only when They no longer have the strength to heal? Imaan was the best amongst us. She was pushed to the edge by us. We did not ‘listen’ to her cries for help. She is gone, now, forever.” I gulped and took a deep breath in.

“We cannot bring her back, but you can try to prevent Imaan’s fate befalling another. I have lost both my angels but please, hold on to yours.”