It is a warm July morning. We have a few days off school, and I have been sent to Phuphee’s house. When I stay with her, she always lets me sleep next to her because she knows I am terrified of sleeping on my own. Phuphee’s room has two sets of windows, both on the same side. Even when it is bright outside, only half of her room is lit up, the rest sits softly in half light. The glass on the windows is made up of different hues of yellows, greens, reds, and blues. When the light streams through them, it results in a riot of colours as if a million rainbows come to life all at the same time. She always leaves the windows open during the summer and it mystifies me that mosquitoes invade every other part of the house except her room. She always teases my uncle about why there are so many mosquitoes in his room.
“What kind of a peer [spiritual doctor] are you?” she would say to him. “Your patients will have to rid themselves of malaria first and then work on their souls!” He would seethe.
This morning, while I lay on the floor bed, I could hear Phuphee saying her morning namaz. After a little while, I hear her recite the Quran, so I get up and walk outside. She is sitting under the walnut tree, with a shawl draped over her shoulders. As soon as I am close, without even looking up, she lifts her left arm high above her shoulder, making space for me. I snuggle up to her, breathing deeply the scents of cardamom, cinnamon and flour, and listen to her. When she is done, she says prayers over me and blows on my face and chest asking God to watch over me. But suddenly she is distracted by something. She looks up at the sky and whispers, “They are coming.”
