Gravel Heart(66)
That was Amir. Bibi did not know how difficult he found it living alone with her. He complained to Saida about how she groaned and snored and had no control of her body. As she grew weaker she cried so much and he did not know what to do to make her stop. She forgot things, including the location of the toilet, and sometimes made a mess of herself.
He told Saida it would be a mercy for her to go. Hush, she told him, it sounds bad to talk like that. But Bibi lingered on: waiting for you, that was what she said. We tried our best and after a year and some earlier mishaps, Saida fell pregnant. Bibi lingered on until you were born and a few days afterwards she died. She waited until you arrived before slipping silently away some hours before dawn. God took her away suddenly and swiftly. May He have mercy on her soul, people said, but they did not know the many months of feebleness she had to endure first. Dying is such a degrading business.
That was when Amir moved in with us. He was almost seventeen years old, handsome and friendly and full of joy. When he smiled everyone smiled back, and he smiled a lot. Saida told me that he had the same elegant looks as their father and the same fair complexion, although he was taller and leaner and laughed more loudly. Whatever he wore hung well on him. It had taken a while after the death of his parents for him to acquire the poise he now had, Saida told me, to grow from the edgy and frightened boy he had been to this friendly and confident youth, although you could see that promise in him even as a tense little boy. He liked to do things, he had energy and a determination that even the tears could not obscure. He also had Saida. The tragedy of their lives brought them closer in an urgent way, made her obsessively protective of him, and made his demands on her absolute and undeniable. He did not hesitate to ask and she did not hesitate to give, and because he was so tender and in need of her, she loved him more for it and tried not to deny him any request. They both understood that their bond of grief and love would be everlasting. Saida used to say that she would do anything for her brother.
He had also had Bibi, whose regular reminders to both Saida and Amir had been that they should mourn and love their parents forever, but that they should also learn to live their own lives with virtue and eagerness. This is the burden we all have to bear, to live a useful life, she said.
It all took time, but Amir probably learnt Bibi’s lesson more completely than Saida, who was sometimes helplessly overcome with the memory of her grief, even in later years. When Amir came home after a troubling encounter at school or at play, his sister and Bibi listened and soothed and condemned the source of his misery. Amir thrived and grew strong on this love and in time he grew into the open and self-possessed youth who came to live with us. He had a way of behaving with anyone, people of his own age or older, that flattered and pleased them. He was quick to laugh at people’s pleasantries and jokes. He listened with humble attention to what was being said to him by his teachers, at least before their faces. He was quick to offer assistance, and had a graceful agility that was like a kind of glamour. He was a good athlete, sang well, and was somehow able to express strong opinions without antagonising his friends. To all appearances, he was a handsome and becoming youth.
To me he was like a beloved younger brother. When he was talking I listened to him with a smile on my face. His smile was at times too wide, trying too hard to please, but I took that for naivety on his part and I smiled back anyway. In time he would learn that he did not have to try so hard. When Amir lamented the lack of music in the house, I bought him a second-hand radio-cassette player. I would have bought him a new one, if one had been available at a reasonable price. Amir searched the wavebands into the early hours and recorded the music he liked, which was mostly British and American pop, and played it again and again in his room, sometimes for hours on end. If the mood was right in the house, he performed the songs for us and taught us to sing along, writing out the words for us and conducting us like a band-leader. He began learning to play the guitar at school, in informal classes organised by one of the teachers, Maalim Ahmed, who otherwise taught them biology. How good it would be if he had his own guitar to practise with at home, but that was beyond our resources. I could spare a small allowance for Amir, though, who saved the money to buy clothes. Music and clothes were his greatest pleasures.
He did not have the same enthusiasm for his schoolwork, although he always did well in examinations and reminded us of that when we tried to persuade him to complete his homework or revise for tests. It will be all right, he said, I know this stuff. At times, Saida completed his work for him because she could not bear the wrangling and the nagging. He could not wait for his time at school to be over and told that to everyone who cared to listen. The teacher who organised the guitar classes asked him one day if he would like to come along to the rehearsals of the band he played with. They did not really need another guitar player but were desperate for a singer. Did Amir want to come along and try? In the meantime, he could improve on his guitar by learning from the others. By the way, the teacher’s band name was Eddie, not Maalim Ahmed, but Amir’s name was good, it sounded showbiz. When he reported this conversation to his sister and me, he put much emphasis on the anticipated improvement. He was not going to be just hanging about but improving on the guitar. He could not help grinning when he told us about his fine showbiz name. The band played at a dance club on weekends, and after the rehearsal Amir was invited to join them for their next show at the club.
‘But you’re still at school,’ I told him. ‘Shouldn’t you wait until you finish your examinations?’