The Girl Who Loved Similes… now The Knitting Needles
By Insensitive Ignorant Heifer (IIH)
The knitting needles made noise as Jamila’s mother went on with her knitting. She was making a scarf, while she sat at the chair in her sitting room. She kept looking at the figure next to the window. Tick tack tick tack the needle went. The figure did not turn around-it hardly did. The window was its only refuge. It would stand there days on end staring at the space beyond the glass pane.
Jamila’s mother kept wondering. Does she see anything? Does the trickling rain arouse any sense in her? Are the sun rays warming her insides? She would never know since Jamila could never tell her. She just stood there like a sculpture in a museum, seeing things that only exist in her head. All efforts to bring her out from that world had been futile.
Her mother would do anything; give anything to have her baby back. The figure at the window has shriveled into a being she could not relate to. It was just the other day when Jamila was out there. She was a happy girl. Her childhood was filled with color, laughter and all the nice things. She would double-dutch with her friends, Purity and Mercy. Her father said her smile would make a good advertisement for Colgate. She used to smile a lot, bringing in sunshine into their otherwise dull world.
Her favorite subject was English. She would come home with words and phrases she had learned in school.
“Mum, similes are boring.” She had said one day.
“They are?” Her mother decided to humor her.
“Yes. Why do they as happy as a king? Kings are not happy. Their subjects problems are theirs, well unless, he’s a merciless and heartless king. I think they need a new phrase, like…”
“Like as happy as Jamila?”
Jamila smiled and hugged her mother, before going to her room.
Jamila’s mother prayed. She prayed for the moments when Jamila would sulk and threw tantrums. To her, those reactions were much better. She could handle that Jamila, not this cold senseless girl that standing in her sitting room. She lost her calm once; she shook Jamila to get something out of her. The girl just stared at her as if nothing had happened. Her eyes looked glazed and the girl’s lips held onto each other, forming a thin strip on her wide face. Her hands hang on her side, immobile. She moved to the shaking and once her mother left her, she remained like before: stationary, with her eyes out there in the field.
***
There was nothing much on the field-a wide carpet of grass punctuated with a flower here and there. In the midst, of it was a young girl in a pink dress with lace and ribbon. The girl had a book in her hand: The World of Similes. She had a smile, the smile that landed her in that world in the first place. Her smile was wider as she was given the chance to create new similes.
As beautiful as the sky above
White as hair on grandma’s hair
Wrinkled as the corner of papa’s eyes
She went on writing the new similes-similes that made her world more sensible. No more as poor as church house. No more as white as snow. She was happy coming up with similes.
Weird how simile is close to smile. Just drop the ‘I’ and you’ll smile. She thought.
She loved the field out there. She could enjoy the life without the pains of reality. The field had the faces of people she loved most: mama, grandma, and papa. Looking yonder, she saw a shadow. She shakes her head and the shadow disappears. Was it something she saw or was it an imagination?
***
Her mother’s hand on her shoulder brought her back to the present.
“Food is ready.”
She moved her limbs. They felt like iron. She tells herself to stop standing at the window too much. She thought of sitting at the nearest couch, and unconsciously she touches it and something in her jolts. She should get a chair to sit there, reduce the pressure on her feet. She will, if she remembers. She wills the girl in pink to help her remember.
The food tastes bland, just like everything else. The smell in the room reminds her of the sterilization room-not that she’s been there. That’s the power of similes, she thinks. You can think of anything and compare it with another. It gives you a sense without you having being there. The food in the plate reduces, but she does not feel where it is going.
Her mother’s lips were moving; she was saying something. If I concentrate, I can hear her.
“Jamila.”
She looks at her mother. Her mother starts crying. It is one of those conversations, again.
“Jamila, you need to see someone. A specialist.”
They have been through that over and over again. She felt for her mother, and wanted to stretch out her hand to hers. Instead, she got up and hugged her.
“Ohh Jamila, you are back. You are back, my child.” The tears continued flowing, making Jamila uncomfortable.
She ran back to her room. The rain was still trickling down. In the past she would jump on her bed and cover herself. On this day, she stares at the bed and cringes in a weird combination of pain and fear. Her only refuge is her corner- the space between her closet and the wall. She huddled herself in the corner and slept.
***
The rain in the field forced her to get back to her house. She ran upstairs and threw herself on the bed. The bed had pink bed sheets and a heavy floral duvet. She held her knees to her face, inviting heat her way.
She did not know when she woke up, but she remembered what woke her up. The huge hand that pulled her knees from her face; the hand that clamped her mouth shut. The other hand that had her tiny trousers forcefully removed from her body; the hands that forced her legs apart.
She could not see the face, but she could hear the voices. The grunts as they had their way with her. The moans as the hands- a pair of hands roamed her young supple body, while the others made sure that not a sound escaped from her mouth. She thought her relief came when one of the hands got off her, but she was wrong. The other hands got on top of her, and the pain seared through her like lightning. Her muffled scream did not even make it passed the hand.
She woke up somewhere else- her eyes heavy and painful. She could not move her hands. She could not say a word. Her eyes skimmed the room and she saw the colorful curtains, then the row of beds beside her, the dolls and toys hanging around. She closed her eyes, and drifted off as the beeping sound beside her sent her to sleep.
***
Thunder struck and she awoke. The dreams are always bad, always. She had replayed the scene over and over since that day- in her wakefulness and in her sleep. It just never got out of her brain through her mouth. She never smiled again. One of the hands had said something about her smile. She knew the smile had made the hands do bad things to her, that’s why she will not smile again, not in front of anyone. It was her fault that the hands came to her. It was her fault, that’s why she did not want to tell her mother and father.
Her mother already knew about it. They just did not mention it to her. She knew from the way her she looked at her. She had this pitiful look that made her insides shed tears-tears that did not get to her eyes. She looked at her secretly because he always looked away when she did it directly. Jamila wanted to him to look at her, see her as he used to- his happy, daughter.
***
The bed was cold. The bed sheets were too stiff. She wanted to go away- anywhere but here. The room did not have any smell; it was empty like a vacuum, so impersonal and aloof, looking at her with those sad eyes. She did not want sad.
Her refuge came by looking out of her window. The outdoors seemed calm even when it rained. She could imagine the scents- conifers, cypress, wet soil, dry soil, freshly cut grass. Then she built her world. Like a magician, she conjured up the perfect world- a world with happy scenes, happy moments. She was the star- the young girl in pink clothes with ribbons and laces.
She escaped reality.
***
Jamila’s father felt sorry for his daughter. He was helpless, torn. How would he face her? How would he look at her and not hate the entire male species for spoiling his blood? The young girl was innocent. He wanted to shout to the world.
The police told him the same thing: I am sorry, we cannot help you. We have no evidence.
It was two weeks since Jamila was raped. No clue, no traces, at least that’s what the policemen said.
He blamed his wife for rendering the case useless. She had taken Jamila and given her a thorough bath before taking her to the hospital.
“What would people say?”
“Why would you care what others said? She’s our daughter. Now you have lost her the case.”
She had told him to let it go. They would raise their child regardless, as long as they do not actually tell her exactly what happened.
He asked her if she was insane. Her silence drove him over the edge. He could not live with such a woman. A woman who bothered so much about what the society would say about her than about the health and well-being of their daughter.
He packed his things and left.
***
Jamila thought of her father often. In her perfect world, her dad was there, but in realty he was not. Again her fault. She did not blame him. Later, when she meets him she will tell him that she understood. It was her fault that he had to leave. She would hold his hand and try to smile. Bring him back to her reality.
She would also look at her mother; tell her that she’s sorry. Tell her to forgive her for smiling too much; for thinking that kings were not happy; for making the hands come to her that night.
She got up from her corner and headed to the window. The moon was full, illuminating the night. In her mind, she saw the girl in pink, looking at her, willing her to come out of her shell.
The days of silence are long over. It’s time to start a new. Jamila listened as she repeated over and over until the voice faded and with it the green field with her mother, and father. The shadow grew bigger and bigger and merged with the night. She felt a layer lift from her. Her mouth opened and a tiny voice escaped.
***
The sun found her standing as she was. Her voice grew stronger and her feet felt like the iron-chain had been broken loose. She looked at her room, before she heard someone call her.
With slow but deliberate steps, she went to the sitting room to find her mother waiting for her in time for breakfast.
“Hallo, mother,” A voice said.
She could see the shock on her mother’s face, knowing well that it reflected on her own.
“As bright as the sun. See, I always loved similes.”
