The Early Birds

My eyes open to darkness, five minutes before the alarm as always. The chirping of the birds is overruled by my husband’s snores. I strain my ears to hear the clatter that my mother-in-law fails to avoid as she prepares a grand holy breakfast for her family and a tray for the Maulvi Sahab and his family at the mosque. Zahida Begum does not want me to intrude - either I am still a new bride for her or she does not want anyone else to make parathas for her son. The only thing she lets me do is make tea and wake up the charges.

Pulling up my hair in a messy bun, I step on to the cool marble and push myself off the bed. I give my body a few seconds to get into its functioning mode before I exit the bedroom. “Subh-a-khair, Ammi Jan.” “Why isn’t everyone up yet? Look at the time. How can the keep on sleeping? Back in our day we used to be up before the birds. Honestly!”

Her greeting for this season never faltered. Her indifference to my greetings kept her love and concern under the wraps. If my children had any concept religion and faith in them, it was due to Zahida Begum. I had given up explaining to her that the children preferred to stuff themselves ten minutes before the Azaan rather than feast for an hour.

Content with a female presence by the stove, she hurriedly leaves to wake the kids up. They don’t even stir a little at her wakeup calls flooded with maternal love, but I have learnt to leave her to her antics. I sigh thinking how adorable a grandmother she is.

My husband enters and gives a mock salute. His silence speaks volumes. Though fully awake, he is never active this early. After setting the kettle to boil, I serve him with a steaming plate of tomato gravy and aaloo ki bhujjia that his mother has prepared. The aroma stirs him up. My mother-in-law returns and gets busy with her rolling pin and tongs. She drops a tempting golden paratha, glistening with the traces of ghee, onto his plate. He reaches for it but draws back his hand as he burns his fingers. With an impatient ‘tut’ she immediately sets her utensil upon the counter and ruthlessly tears it apart into four. She ignores the “shukria, Ammi” and goes back to her cooking.

As she finishes off her work, I pour out four cups of tea – my daughter gave up tea after a friend of hers convinced her that it would ruin her complexion. I instantly put one cup next to my husband’s plate gleaming with red and yellow vegetables. He takes a teeny sip of it and putting it down, lunges onto the food. Satisfied with his start, my mother-in-law diverts her attention towards me and forces me to take one of her delicious parathas. With my mug in hand, I skillfully avoid it with an excuse to get the children.

I switch off the fan in my daughter’s room; in a trice she is up like a disgruntled zombie. She refrains from expressing her distaste towards this act of mine in words but chooses to trudge to the washroom with child-like moans. Flipping on the light in her room I head for my son’s room across the corridor. Ignoring the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign that glares at me I knock upon his door till I hear a sleepy acknowledgment. I leave his bedroom door ajar knowing that the sliver of light entering his room will be enough to disturb him from his slumber.

Upon my return I see a bowl of phainee on the counter. As I stand on the other end of the marble top, my mother-in-law pushes it towards me with a stern command to eat. It is my refusal to eat that bothers her more than my children’s unusual eating habits.

My son enters with the energy of a pixie. “Salam, Dadi Jan. Yo, Pa!” I get my exclusive “Mommy!” With that he demands, “Corn flakes.” It was to no one in particular but reprimanding hums come from Zahida Begum. With a gentle tirade as to why he should have something else, she gets up from her seat and gets him a plate of the delicacies she has cooked. As he obediently chomps, she tries to tame his wild locks. Seeing that he is not touching his hot tea, she pours the contents into a bowl for him. Quietly eating her toast and tea with her right hand, she swirls the bowl with the other.

My daughter is the last one to grace the morning with her presence. She walks in silently, grumpiness upon her features, and heads for the refrigerator. After a silent inspection she takes out a bowl of yesterday’s fruit salad and drops on to her chair like a sack of potatoes. Propping herself on her elbow, she refuses to touch the vegetables and parathas but does not make an effort to resist when her grandmother makes a nivala for her. This is followed by six more.

The silent proceedings of sehri at our place are unbelievable. The peace is pierced by our neighbour’s cries and shouts. They are quite normal during the day. What happens to them at this hour? A few more expressions follow the hullabaloo that would never be used in our household in a million light years. I am scandalized. My mother-in-law shakes her head between her sips of tea. The twins snort and my husband manages to smirk at the chaos next door. Though our reactions differ, we all are thinking the same thing. Thank Allah this does not happen here.

As my daughter gets up first I urge her to drink a glass of water. Years back she had questioned me how was one glass of water supposed to keep her from being parched the entire day. I failed to answer her just like my mother had when I had asked her the same question. Crazy traditions.

As the public departs from the room, I gather the plates and dump them in the sink. The maid will take care of them later. My son hangs around, sitting at the table and listening to the shrieks of my neighbour trying to get her son up. I believe he enjoys sehri solely because of the eccentric individuals that reside next to us and their early morning quirks. The blaring siren from the mosque is his cue to leave. With a loud, deliberate burp that distorts my face in disgust, he makes for his room. With a glass of water, I follow Zahida Begum out of the room.