SPLINTER
By Annum Shah
I.
He looks back as the car pulls away from the curb. The red paint on the door that leads into the courtyard of his childhood home is peeling, the wood warped and cracking with age. His mother had not bothered to accompany him to the door as is custom, his farewell relegated to a short hug and a quick Allahafiz. He tells himself it’s because she’s occupied with his younger siblings, but the feeling of rejection stings. Allahafiz, he repeats to himself, God be with you. He bids it to the house he’s leaving behind, the corner store where he’d drink mango juice with his friends, the tree lined streets, his father’s shop as he passes by it. The road he’s driving on is still unpaved, kicking up dust as the car bounces on potholes. He wonders if the turbulence on the plane will feel similar.
———
He wakes as the plane touches down, the unfamiliar cadence of the announcement in English waking him. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and a moment longer to piece together what the flight attendant is saying. He joins the crowd of bodies deplaning, pushed forward by an older white man who doesn’t return his smile when he looks back at him. By the time he collects his bags and clears immigration, he feels like his English has reached its limit, sticking in his throat in a way Urdu never does. It’s snowing when he steps out. The buildings and landscape in front of him look as grey as the sky. His thin parka isn’t enough to keep the biting wind out and by the time he manages to hail a taxi, his fingers are stiff with cold. The driver makes no effort to make conversation with him, so unlike people back home. With each passing mile, he wonders if he’s made the right decision.
His new home is a small room in the corner of a shared house, a twin-sized bed pushed up against a wall with peeling wallpaper and a chest of drawers on the other side. He sits on the bed, still in his jacket, and tests the bounce, noting the thin layer of dust on the desk. His head is spinning, still adjusting to being back on land. His voice cracks from dehydration and disuse, but he says Allahafiz to himself aloud until he falls asleep.
———
The first time, he goes out of pure curiosity. Back home in Pakistan, alcohol was served only if you knew where to find it, in bigger cities he seldom visited. Here, there seems to be a bar on every corner, the flow of liquor as readily available as water; people drink out in the open in a way that fascinates and disgusts him in equal measure. He wants to know what the appeal is. There’s no one here to stop him, no glances from his mother, no father to hide from. He steps into a bar not far from where he’s staying, taking in the dim lighting, the quiet music and wood panels. He’s not sure what to do, so he opts to sit right at the counter. The bartender glances over and asks what he wants, but he doesn’t know what any of the drinks are called. He fumbles, trying to remember what he might’ve heard in the few movies he’s seen at the cinema since he’s been here.
“Whiskey?”
Paree Rohera, “To Lose,” Oil and Acrylic on Canvas, 2024.
He’s going to be married soon. The news comes to him in a letter and he’s due back home in a few days. He readies the house for his new bride, finishes the beer in the fridge and takes out the bottles with the rest of the garbage. His arrival back in Pakistan is unceremonious. His younger brother picks him up from the airport and three days later, he mumbles a quick I do to the Imam that reads his nikkah, his marriage cemented to a woman he doesn’t know. By the time they're back in Canada, he’s itching for a drink. The last two weeks have left him feeling out of sorts, everything too loud and bright, the feeling of ants crawling on his skin. It’s snowing when they land, but he drops his bride home and makes his way to the bar. The warmth of his drink feels like releasing a breath.
At first, he feels guilty leaving her home night after night. He notices the way her expression shutters closed when he stumbles in late and knows she’s figured him out. She never says anything, but the already wide chasm between them deepens. Theirs is a home of silence, but it’s nothing he hasn’t known before. It’s his life now, he’s free to do what he wants. He fulfills the duties he thinks are necessary, puts food on the table and finds a better job so they can get a bigger place. When his daughter is born, he marvels at her sweet innocence, vows to try harder. He limits his nights at the bar, tucks small bottles of hard liquor in the glove compartment of his car and the briefcase he takes to work. As she grows older, he tells himself he hides it well, that she has no way of knowing what alcohol or a drunken man smells like as a Muslim child.
Eventually, her looks of confusion and disgust begin to mirror her mother’s.
Eventually, he returns to what he knows best.
He has a steady job, moving up from shop drone to manager. He avoids the bar when he can, takes a few fortifying swigs of straight vodka in his car before he comes home. His chair in the living room begins to sag, so he adds a few cushions to bolster his weight. The musical intro of the Pakistani news channel calms him, and he sits there until his eyes get heavy, a familiar, repeated motion.
II.
The first time, she goes out of pure curiosity. The music overwhelms her as soon as she steps inside the house. There are bottles and half-used cups on every inch of the kitchen counter, interspersed with bowls of chips and halloween cookies. People crowd together in small pockets along the walls, tucked away from the noise. In the middle of the living room, people sway together on a makeshift dance floor, and she loses herself in the rhythm for a moment. She’s pulled in with the tide, a girl she recognizes from one of her classes twirling her as she passes, while a guy she doesn’t know hands her an unopened bottle with a wink. She smiles at them both. She promised herself she’d be someone different tonight, calm and chill; unaffected by the varying states of drunkenness around her.
Her shoes stick to the floor, the heat of so many people in a small space already making her shirt stick to her back. She spots a few friends and pushes her way to them, interrupting the sway of dancing bodies. Everyone has a drink in hand, struggling to make conversation over the cacophony. She holds her own bottle loosely, not letting go but not drinking either. Her thoughts fray beneath the neon lights, coming together and falling apart like a dream sequence.
“Did you have something to drink?”
It comes out croaked like a question, but he must’ve asked something right, as the bartender slides a crystal glass in front of him. He stares at the amber liquid inside.
The part of him that grew up learning the Quran makes him hesitate. He traces his finger around the rim of the glass, over and over, picking up the beading moisture and tasting it on his finger before he takes his first sip. It burns his throat as it goes down and he tries to cough as subtly as he can, not wanting to draw more attention to himself. The next sip slides down smoother but it’s still vaguely disgusting. He keeps at it though, chasing its warmth. He asks for another glass, and then another.
By the time he gets home, his thoughts are swimming. He can’t seem to focus long enough to remember how much he’s had. It’s enough that his father would have beaten him black and blue, while his mother stood to the side, like a watchful sentinel. He hasn’t spoken to them in a while, calling Pakistan is more than his meager pay at the gas station can afford. Every few months, he sends and receives a letter, so there’s no way for them to know what he’s up to outside of what he shares. His life isn’t something he can talk to them about, so it’s mostly platitudes: yes, he’s doing well, yes, he’s met other Pakistanis, yes, he’s starting to settle in. He makes no mention of the bar down the road, of nights spent with the quiet lull of music and hushed voices. He wakes up feeling hollow but the guilt lessens each night he spends there. It’s his life. For the first time, he has the freedom to do as he wants.
Canada seems as good a place as any to settle. He has steady work and a small apartment in a small town. He can reconcile the drinking as long as he prays regularly, turning out his prayer mat with the same mechanical motion as bringing a glass of vodka soda to his lips. He’s made friends at the bar and with other young Pakistani men who have found themselves in this frozen wasteland. Like him, they take no issue with spending a night quietly tipsy. It’s another notch in the effort to assimilate, to drown out the voices of the white men at the station that call him a dirty Paki when he can’t piece together English quick enough.
————
Paree Rohera, “Pure-Camo,” Oil and Acrylic on Canvas, 2023.
She holds up her bottle to show it off, smiles at their cheers.
“Do you know anyone else here? Where’s Sarah?”
“No idea, there’s too many people! We’ll find her eventually.”
She can barely hear what her friend is yelling in her ear, too focused on the people stumbling around her. She scans the crowd, looking for more people she may know but gives up after a few minutes. She dances with her friends for a bit, but the humidity makes her skin feel clammy so she eventually motions that she’s going to step away.
Outside, a group plays beer pong on a creaking table. She leans against the side of the house and breathes in the cool air, leaving her bottle on the ground next to her. She’s not sure what she’s doing here. Emma finds her like that. It’s been a year since they’ve spoken, but Emma still feels comfortable sliding a hand to her neck, wrapping her fingers around her hair. You look so beautiful tonight. You’re so lucky you’re here. She trips and slurs over her words. Emma’s eyes are glazed over with whatever she’s had to smoke and drink. She has no idea if she’s being sincere, but she’d heard Emma had spent the last year in rehab. She’s not sure when they drifted apart, just that they did. Sometime around the first time she went to her house, feeling closed off as Emma’s father laughed while asking her if she was an Islamic and where she really came from. Emma sways, her hand hot and sweaty at the side of her neck. She feels nauseous. It hits her like a wave, too fast and too hard— her friend, the pulse of the music vibrating the house, the laughter and bodies pressed too close. She holds Emma’s arm for a moment before gently pushing away, her thanks lost as she turns away. She walks to the front of the house and sits on the steps, as close to tears as she’s been in months. Her sister picks up on the second ring.
“Can you pick me up? I don’t want to be here anymore.”