Bitter Orange Tree by Jokha Alharthi

Author:Jokha Alharthi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Catapult
Published: 2022-03-05T00:00:00+00:00

Bonds of Sympathy

A sympathetic bond and a mutual fondness grew between my grandmother and Athurayyaa. The deeper Bint Aamir’s hands plunged into the household—into the soil, planting the family’s trees; into the bread dough, kneading it; into the oven, to bake the bread; onto little Mansour’s body, scrubbing it with a loofah and soap—the higher Athurayyaa rose above the soil, above the earth, circling in the air of our home until she was part of the air we breathed. She rose into the atmosphere with her prayer rug, like a ghost. Bint Aamir’s feet were submerged in the soil that was the ground of our lives. She built the walls that made this household exist and thrive, mud brick by mud brick. Athurayyaa ascended higher and higher, building a world of purely spiritual bricks. Athurayyaa inscribed amulets to keep fever away from children. She mixed saffron into a bit of water and painted Qur’an verses onto the interiors of shallow white cups. Once the lettering had dried, women in labor added water and drank the mixture to lessen their pain. People came to her seeking other cures and she responded, without charge and without a word. Her hopes were heavenward, and her desires did not include the recompenses of this world.

Bint Aamir had to walk through the soil of this world. To escape the sting of the late-morning sun, she would bind palm fronds to the bottom of her feet with thongs made of palm fiber. She balanced the clay jahla on her head and drew water from the falaj, Mansour following her every step. He was old enough now that he took pleasure in flaunting the myriad tiny round mirrors along the hems and front edges of his little broadcloth robes. These outer garments, shot through with gold threads, were ordered especially for him from India. He tried to provoke Bint Aamir by holding the mirrors up to the sun so the rays would bounce off them and straight into her one good eye. But she did not react; on her head, the jahla sat as steady as ever. When he tired of trying unsuccessfully to goad her, he gave up and ran ahead of her, toward the house, where his mother Athurayyaa had washed herself in preparation for midday prayers, pushing her soft feet into her wooden Zanzibari clogs. She walked across the courtyard to her prayer niche and began saying supererogatory prayers to the movement of her beads as she waited for the call to prayer. By now, his father, Salman, would have closed the door to his shop, ready for his midday nap, leaving Mansour to snitch sugar cubes from the tin that had on its lid a scene of a summer day in England, women in frocks and parasols walking among the trees. Mansour always imagined himself in that scene, racing ahead of his friends.

By now, Mansour was approaching the age of twelve, when his father would shave off his braids. The winds of fortune were finally blowing in Salman’s direction.

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