There were no sounds except for her crying. Baby Lana, in Eshal’s lap, bleated awfully in a fit of something. But what exactly no one knew; or, if they did, they wouldn’t tell Eshal. None of the aunties even looked at her. Rustling Quran pages and muttered recitations were the closest acknowledgment. So Eshal wiped Lana’s tears. Carefully, and with the corners of her black kameez, Eshal collected each droplet. But the baby kept fussing. Eshal wondered if she rubbed the fabric too hard or if the hand in Lana’s face was annoying or if she needed to be fed. Though the girl had already eaten some appetizers. So Eshal put away her hand, clutching the kameez.
Still, Lana cried, and Eshal wished her mother was there—Lana’s or her own. But only one had come to the funeral. So, the Saturday of the funeral, her husband brought the kids while she worked. The father, when she dropped Lana in Eshal’s arms, said his “wife sends her condolences. About your mother.” Then he nodded awkwardly before walking downstairs, where all the other uncles were probably saying the same to Eshal’s father.
Neither girl’s mother was available. So Eshal would have to do for Lana, though she wanted to join that little girl. In crying, if nothing else; if not the piteous stares that absolved Lana. Those same eyes stared at Eshal with scorn when she’d look away. And—since she was a girl too, just fourteen—she made a game of it. Kind of like peek-a-boo, she would turn her head away from the aunties, feel the evil eye on her, then turn back to wrinkled faces buried in the Quran. Eshal liked to scan their eyes, petrified and unmoving. They weren’t reading. Maybe if they did, they wouldn’t have judged Eshal.
Naila, Eshal’s mother, had taught her that the antidote was education. Educated women were beyond culture—that was for the dependent and socially demure. Not like Naila. She was part of the first female cohort to enter NUST: Pakistan’s top university.
From her earliest consciousness, Eshal had been rolled through the wringer. That is: her mother’s mind, which would ensure nothing but success for her daughter. She put the girl, at five, into a spelling bee meant for middle schoolers. She drilled the words into the girl way past her bedtime. Whenever a word was said wrong, a clap resounded through the house. But anybody who would’ve cared to intervene would’ve already been asleep at that point. So Naila carried on.
Eshal never graduated from her mother’s education. If Naila were still alive, Eshal thought, she still would’ve been subject to her. Just because she was a girl. Haseeb, Eshal’s older brother, never went through that. He was free to move anywhere and do anything. In fact, he was in London instead of Naila’s funeral. Whenever he called, Eshal swallowed down any accusations. Because, if given the choice, she might’ve made the same one. If only she were. But then the aunties would have no object of scorn and pity, and Lana would’ve been alone.
Lana had stopped crying a while ago. Nobody noticed, or those who did pretended not to. Except for Eshal, still responsible for the girl. Watching the babbling baby, she wondered what bajis were responsible for herself growing up. No name came to mind. Since she had always been with her mother. In childhood, Eshal had clung to the woman. Some of Naila’s sari was balled into her fist. After the beating, she wondered why Naila never spoke softly to her. Why her good-seeming self was for strangers, not family. But she was gone, and like Lana, Eshal only had memories of a mother to cling to.
***
Eshal tried to look around. Usually, on any day other than that one, it calmed her. To be away from her mind only took the dart of her eye. But with every auntie around her, the solution wasn’t so simple. They were mirrors. Each wore a different shade of black, but the same stare. It was vacuous. Those kinds of voids that were inescapable, like all-nighters when her homework was due tomorrow, and Naila had asked: “Why isn’t it done if you had all day?” There was never a good answer—for Naila and the aunties, there was none. At least with Naila, the words were said aloud. With the aunties, it didn’t have to be. Their thoughts were everywhere Eshal looked.
Would Lana have these thoughts when she grew up? Did she have them now? Eshal wondered where she was mentally, back when she was a toddler.
The girl crawled near a bookcase, Lana in one arm. She reached over to get a pamphlet, opening it to the first page. Eshal shifted Lana so that she could properly read the prayers. She began reciting. With practiced poise, she blew each whispered word into Lana’s ears.
She started with Surah Yasin. Because Eshal never understood Arabic (despite Naila enrolling her in Arabic classes at the Sunday school), she tended to disappear under the recitation. The familiar rhythm of sounds that were somehow words stirred some stranger memories. When Eshal was born, Farooq’s mother had named her Yaseen. Naila had hated this, enough to change the name to Eshal after Farooq’s mother died later that year. The man originally opposed the change, but became numb to it along with his grief.
Next was Surah Mulk. Eshal paused the recitation. Lana started babbling, making her previous silence more precious. The question of Lana’s consciousness was answered.
At that, Eshal broke out into a sweat, which seemed impossible in late Fall. But beads dewed her forehead anyway. She put the pamphlet back, trying not to meet the aunties’ stares as Lana crawled off her lap. Not too far, but far enough. Enough to make Eshal another lonely girl without a thing to cling to.
Her back against the wall, she hugged her legs. Holding up her chin, her knees were sharp enough to keep her alert, but blunt enough to make it worth staying awake. Eshal became alone. Without any cover—no pamphlet, no Lana—she was at the mercy of those stares. They were even worse than before. At least when she had Lana, Eshal could convince herself people were staring at the baby. Not that it worked, but it was the thought that had mattered. Her hand clutched a corner of her kameez. Eshal closed her eyes.
Behind her eyelids, there was nobody. So she kept them that way awhile. Everything seemed quieter, but she knew that was just a trick of the mind. Aunties slipped pages somehow softer, it seemed to her ears; they played tricks on her too. But Eshal didn’t want to cover them. Not with the aunties watching. They might think Eshal was ignoring the prayer, making a scene at her own mother’s funeral. She wondered what that might look like: probably crying like baby Lana, but with closed eyes and plugged ears and a large body. Eshal opened her eyes. There was Lana, quiet and rolling uneasily on the prayer mat. She kept pulling at its fabric. Kind of like she was unrooting a garden, but one fiber at a time. Eshal clenched a clump in her hand, then stopped before ripping it out. Though she knew she could.
“Eshal,” a voice reached out, “Allah Naila ki maghfirat farmaye.”
The girl was lifted up from the ground into the woman’s arms. Eshal’s stomach turned, and though she meant to, the girl couldn’t return the hug. Not with the eyes on her, and on the woman, and on Lana who was supposed to be in Eshal’s care. There was too much, and then too many tears. Eshal wiped them off on Amina auntie’s kameez. But they just wouldn’t stop.
***
“Beti?” whispered Amina auntie, “you need me to come in?”
Eshal’s stomach swelled again. Forcing back sobs, she replied, “No, I’ll-I-I can…I’ll step out in a second.” The water ran hot. Her hands stayed motionless beneath it. As steam began collecting on the mirror, she stopped the faucet, then dried her hands. She opened the door and returned to the world.
“Sit with me,” said Amina auntie.
When she sat, Eshal dreaded the conversation. Not because of Amina auntie. In fact, if it were any other auntie, she wouldn’t have sat there. But Amina auntie had taught Eshal Islamic studies last year—her favorite subject since she had been enrolled. Subconsciously or not, Eshal could sit there. They didn’t have to talk either. For a while, the pair sat side by side. Recitation, from the men’s section of the prayer hall, hummed resonantly through the door. Though it was closed. Eshal imagined the women’s section. How quiet it was compared to the men’s. Even though they were doing the same thing.
“Why are they quiet?” asked Eshal, louder than any man’s prayer.
Amina auntie considered it for a second. “What do you mean?”
“Why are they quieter than the men when they pray?”
“Should we be loud?” Amina auntie had done this a lot when she taught Eshal. “Do we need to be loud when we pray?”
“Well, I don’t think so,” said Eshal, smiling like she used to. “My question was why aren’t we?”
“Maybe we have less to prove than men. Our lives are already troubled enough by the sheer virtue of our bodies,” she said, then pointed at her hijab.
“Is expressing yourself considered troubling?”
“I guess not…but, you know, there’s nothing technically wrong with praying out loud at a woman’s funeral. Islamically, anyway. If it really bothers you, you should pray out loud as much as you want. No reason not to express yourself.”
Eshal chuckled, “Don’t think I will.” She almost forgot that, a few moments ago, she had been crying. At that thought, she remembered, and withdrew her smile. Another prayer-filled silence passed between them.
“How’s your brother?”
Eshal shrugged, and Amina nodded. But she smiled as if to say “typical.” She had taught Haseeb as well, back when he was thirteen. Six whole years ago, but by Amina’s reaction, he had hardly changed.
“Hey, Amina auntie?”
“You can just call me Amina, apke marzi.”
“Amina, where’s Lana?”
“Baby Lana? She’s with my mother-in-law, don’t worry.”
“Are there any other Lanas present?” asked Eshal between laughs.
Amina laughed back, “No, no, just my cousin’s named Lana, and she recently came up from Queens so I’ve been all over the place with that name.”
“I see,” replied Eshal. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“What’s your cousin Lana like?”
“Uh, why?”
“Just, I’m curious.”
“She’s a little older than me. So I don’t know everything about her. You know how little the older talk to the younger,” she paused to smile, “so you better treasure this conversation.”
Eshal rolled her eyes.
“But yeah, she just gave birth. She’s doing the rounds with the family. A girl, she’s healthy—Alhamdulillah. We weren’t sure, before they moved to America, if my cousin would even live to marry, let alone have a child. She’s in a ‘pram,’” she did an English accent, then sobered her voice to say: “because of the polio…but she’s a laughing person. Doesn’t matter what you say—if she likes you, she’ll laugh.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now.”
“Was she different when she was younger?”
“Yeah, but isn’t everyone? There were some hard times, I hear. She might be able to tell you more if she comes to the Sunday school. But yeah, she was more silent back then.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? I can only tell you that she had contracted polio before seven in the pind—her and a few other village-children. Other than that, who knows?”
“Don’t you worry about what kind of person a child will be?”
Amina contemplated this. “Why do you ask?”
“Lana, mainly, I wonder about Lana.”
“Why her?”
“She’s a blank slate. In a time where everyone’s doing things around her, and she’s just taking it in in the same way that we took stuff in when we were that age. I worry about the parts of her life that she’s soaking in. What are the memories she will remember? Will they make her good?”
“Who knows?”
“How are you just okay with—” Eshal started, but a man walked in front of them to enter the prayer room. He looked around Haseeb’s age, probably one of his friends. The prayer’s volume dimmed as the door closed. The man was gone. Eshal could speak, but she didn’t.
“I notice you went quiet,” said Amina, “why?”
Eshal realized that she was raised to say: “because I am good.”
***
“Amina aun—Amina, can I have a moment?”
She placed a hand on Eshal’s back, comforting as the silk she wore. “I’ll be in the women’s section,” she started to leave, then added, “praying as loudly as I can,” with sincerity in her eyes. Eshal nodded back.
With Amina gone, it was a quiet foyer. Spices were in the air, residue from pre-prayer appetizers. The structure of Muslim funerals was odd, Eshal thought, in fact quite absurd. The community whets their appetites before praying. Didn’t that take away from the situation? With appetizers teasing their bellies, could they properly mourn? Was it perhaps a challenge? Imposed through culture, like all the dumb challenges first-world Muslims faced? Eshal had all the space in the world to wonder about this. Nobody was coming to or going away from the funeral. Not even the guard, who was there every single Sunday, stood outside! Was this her challenge? To be alone in transience. All alone, whether it was fated or not.
Eshal took out her phone. She sent a message to her father, asking him to come upstairs—under the pretense of the prayer starting soon. It was, and she could tell because of the dimmed volume of the men’s hall. Her father read the text but didn’t respond. She tried not to react, or even think about not reacting. Not that it worked. Eshal stood up. Hoping that, somehow, her walking to the women’s side could help her calm down.
It was typical, she thought, that nothing could work. Crying wasn’t an option. She had exhausted her tears earlier. All that remained was frustration deep within her. So rooted and guttural, like the recitations around her. Amina was reciting loudly, Eshal realized. In the women’s section, so loudly. She had said she would, and she did. Eshal recognized it would’ve made her laugh anytime else.
Why not then? All alone in the foyer. With the roof so high and white, but a dirty white. Naila would’ve scolded her if the table were left that way. It was her fault, Eshal decided, that she was like this. Naila ruined the aunties’ eyes. Naila ruined learning for her. Naila ruined her name. But the worst sin of all—Eshal’s flailing around an empty room; like Naila had cut her head off, like Eshal was a chicken. She could not be alone, realized Eshal. Without anyone to see her, who was she?
The sun must have escaped the clouds, because the entrance to the school glowed. She stepped towards it, the light. At its cusp, she considered leaving, tracing her hands along the metallic door. Outside, the sun’s bloom rained on all things: from the parking lot to the graveyard in the back; from the playground swings to the Little Free Library with childhood books she and Haseeb once donated together. With her hand on the doorhandle, the men from downstairs came upstairs. She put it away, and with it any dreams of leaving. Eshal walked to the entrance of the women’s section. As she entered the room, she looked back, catching sight of her father.
Amina was on the floor cradling baby Lana. The prayer pamphlet was in her hands. Baby Lana kept swatting at it with her own. They were so small and pudgy. When she sat near Lana, Eshal squished her arms. Amina was careful not to overwhelm Lana in the fabric of her sari. It smelled familiar, and if she were younger, Eshal might have tried to disappear in it. She started wondering why or if Lana didn’t want to.
The older woman recited from the pamphlet. Amina’s voice was beautiful: a gentle whisper susurrating into the girl’s ears, but loud enough to carry into Eshal’s. She had read them before, even heard them before, but not like this. When Amina recited the surahs, they forefronted Eshal’s mind. Each sound resonated completely, and she wanted to understand them. That struck her as the most odd, since she had never shown any interest in tafsir before. But it was earnest. The same way hunger acted on the stomach—piercing, but honest.
All the aunties were staring. She paid it no mind. It was secondary to Amina’s voice, which calmed her. Those worries about whom Lana could become were gone, the girl so small and soft in Lana’s arms. She was right there, after all. Waving around her hands like she was going to do a cartwheel—she would’ve, if only her body could wrap around her mind! But she had all the time in the world, Eshal realized, to do anything, and just a fraction of that would be spent on frivolous things like learning to cartwheel. There would be times when she learned the wrong things. Others where she learned great lessons from bad times. People might tell her lies, but she would seek out the truth—purposefully or otherwise, and it would be on her terms.
Eshal held out her hand to the little girl, and she took it, her legs wobble-walking off Amina’s lap. The Imam had started the prayer. All the aunties, filing to their spaces, made way for the bumbling baby girl. They looked at her with warmth in their eyes, a warmth extended to Eshal. The prayer began; everyone moved in lockstep. Everyone but Lana, trembling between Amina and Eshal. The two women were praying themselves. Still, their hands stretched out to hold Lana up.
Haseeb Haider is a Pakistani-American writer. In 2026, he was a finalist for the Passages North Waasnode Fiction Prize. His works have appeared in The Gallatin Review, Aftab Magazine, and more. He is based in New York.