For as long as I could remember, I had loved Ammi and wished she were someone else.
In my heart, I had created another mother. One who dressed modestly, spoke softly, and never attracted the disapproving glances of strangers. A mother I could walk beside without lowering my eyes, whose presence filled me with pride rather than shame.
How desperately I had wanted Ammi to become that woman.
But she existed only in my imagination.
She was a mirage, a beautiful illusion I kept chasing, while the real Ammi stood before me, loving me in ways I was too ashamed to acknowledge.
I loved her. God knows how much I loved her.
Yet there were days when I could hardly bear to be seen beside her.
I was fourteen when the first cracks began to appear in the shame I had mistaken for my own.
We had moved yet again, this time to an especially conservative neighborhood in Lahore. I had hoped that a new home might mean a new beginning. Perhaps here, no one would know us. Perhaps I could simply be a girl, rather than the daughter of a woman everyone talked about.
But the whispers followed us.
They always did.
Ammi loved bright clothes, wore makeup, and carried herself with a confidence that seemed to offend people who barely knew her. Her dupatta never quite covered her head the way others thought it should.
I had grown accustomed to conversations that stopped when we approached and glances that lingered too long.
At first, I resented the people who judged her. But as I grew older, their opinions began to find a home inside me.
What if they were right?
The question frightened me.
Especially when I thought of Abba.
THE WHOLE ABBA THING PUZZLES ME. WHAT’S THE RELATIONSHIP? WHAT ABOUT THE MEN COMING AND GOING IN SHERBET? THIS TIES INTO SHERBET, DOESN’T IT?
He adored me. He called me Dhee Rani, his little princess, and whenever he said those words, I felt as though nothing in the world could touch me.
But the stories people told about Ammi had planted a terrible doubt.
Sometimes I stood before the mirror, searching my face for a resemblance to his. I studied my eyes, my nose, the shape of my chin, hoping to find some small proof that I was truly his daughter.
Abba had never given me a reason to doubt his love.
Yet I had begun to wonder whether I was his child at all.
I hated myself for it.
And I blamed Ammi.
Why couldn't she be like other mothers? Why couldn't she dress and behave in ways that would leave people with nothing to say?
I decided I would never be like her.
I wore plain white shalwar kameez, my dupatta carefully arranged over my head. I spoke softly, lowered my eyes, and behaved as I believed a respectable girl should.
WHY WHITE?
If Ammi attracted attention, I would disappear.
If people questioned her character, I would make mine impossible to question.
Surely, they would see that I was different.
But they never did.
I was still her daughter.
I began avoiding Ammi whenever I could. When she entered a room, I found an excuse to leave. When she asked me to sit beside her, I pretended to be busy.
Sometimes I caught her watching me, as though searching for the little girl who had once followed her everywhere.
I saw the hurt in her eyes.
And still, I walked away.
I spent much of my time on the terrace, where I sometimes watched two little girls playing.
They chased each other, laughed, and quarreled over the smallest things, only to forget their disagreements moments later.
How I wished there could be three instead of two.
Us, instead of them.
They seemed so free. I was only fourteen, yet I felt burdened by things they knew nothing about.
Sometimes I wanted to call out to them, but I never quite found the courage.
Then one afternoon, Abba was away, and Ammi had gone to visit a friend.
I was alone on the terrace when I saw the girls playing again.
This time, I called out.
Would they like to come over and play with my dolls?
To my delight, they agreed.
Soon the three of us were sitting on the floor, surrounded by my dolls. The girls examined their dresses, argued over which was the prettiest, and laughed at things I had almost forgotten could be funny.
Before long, I was laughing with them.
For the first time in months, I wasn't thinking about Ammi or what anyone thought of our family.
I was simply a girl playing with two other girls.
I wanted the afternoon to last.
Perhaps they would come back tomorrow. Perhaps we could become friends.
The thought made me happier than I had been in a long time.
I decided to make them sherbet. WHY SHERBET?
In the kitchen, I carefully prepared two glasses, stirring the sweet syrup into cold water until the colors blended. I wanted everything to be just right.
It was such a small offering, but I had put so much hope into it.
When I returned, I placed the glasses before them with a smile.
One girl accepted hers and took a sip.
The younger one looked at her glass but did not touch it.
"Go on," I encouraged her gently. "Have some."
She hesitated.
Then she looked up at me.
"What if there's alcohol in it?"
For a moment, I could only stare at her.
Alcohol?
In my home? In the sherbet I had made for her with such affection? WITH SUCH AFFECTION? HOPE? SOMETHING ELSE?
"How could you even think that I would do such a thing?" I asked.
I heard the hurt in my own voice.
Only moments earlier, we had been laughing together. I had imagined them returning tomorrow, perhaps the day after, until we became the sort of friends who visited one another without needing an invitation.
Now I wondered what they had heard about us.
I looked at the little girl.
She was only seven.
I had thought children that young were untouched by the judgments of adults.
The laughter was gone. An awkward silence settled between us, and soon the girls said they had to leave.
I watched them go.
Then I looked at the untouched glass of sherbet.
I had prepared it with such happiness, hoping to offer a little sweetness to two girls whose friendship I had wanted so badly.
For one beautiful afternoon, I had almost forgotten what it meant to be my mother's daughter.
And then a seven-year-old girl reminded me.
For days, her question stayed with me.
She hardly knew me. How could she believe something so terrible about me?
One afternoon, sitting alone on the terrace, I found myself remembering the way Ammi watched me whenever I turned away from her.
And suddenly, I wondered what she must have felt.
I had wanted that little girl to see me for who I was, not for what she had heard about my mother.
Yet I had never allowed Ammi that same kindness. YET I HAD LONG FORGOTTEN TO ALLOW AMMI THAT SAME KINDNESS.
I had spent years measuring her against a woman who existed only in my imagination. When she failed to become that woman, I had withheld the affection she continued to offer me.
I thought of the little girl I had once been, running to Ammi without caring who was watching. I remembered how naturally I had reached for her hand, how safe I had felt beside her.
When had loving her become something I was ashamed to show?
I still wished Ammi dressed differently. I still struggled with things I did not understand, and the questions about Abba had not disappeared.
Perhaps they would trouble me for years.
But I was beginning to understand that I did not have to become like my mother to love her.
Nor did she have to become the mother I had imagined to deserve my affection.
That seven-year-old girl had unknowingly given me something far more valuable than the friendship I had hoped for.
She had given me the courage to look at my mother with a little more kindness.
That evening, when Ammi came to sit beside me, I did not get up to leave.
Instead, I moved closer and rested my head on her shoulder.
I still had my questions. She was still the same Ammi, and I was still the daughter who wished so many things were different.
But for that moment, none of it needed to be settled.
I was simply her little girl again.
And for a little while, I had given Ammi her daughter back.
Forgiveness was for another day, perhaps another lifetime.
