My bed was comfortable, my face sank into my pillow, my blanket was pulled up to my chin, and I was huddled into a ball knowing tomorrow’s worries belonged to tomorrow.

BY PARISHAE ALI

IMAGE BY PATSY WISNIEWSKI

Most of the time I spent in bed was not productive. But what is productivity? I would ask, sometimes eight times in one go. And then I’d continue to lie there and think about the true meaning of producing work, and what was considered work, and what qualifies as time well spent.

I would burrow deeper and deeper under the covers; curling into myself, eyebrows scrunched up, until I sank into an uncomfortable drifting-in-and-out kind of nap. The deep, hazy dreams that came out of this nap were composed of the same thought process—the lack of work I was doing, the rest I clearly needed but didn’t work hard enough to deserve, and why I had any reason to be so tired. To say that I was lazy would be an understatement. On most days, I struggled to get out of bed, to form a coherent sentence. Any conversations I had consisted mostly of the words Nice, Wow, Awesome, and my favourite: Interesting. This response was the one that had all the characteristics of Nice and Good, but it was noticeable enough to distract people into thinking it meant something.

Occasionally my sister would come over. Before her, the rest of my day had looked shadowy and meaningless until bedtime, when the shadows would subside into the darkness of my room and my thoughts. But she made something stir in me, vaguely. I never got up to open my door, walk to the living room, and say hello. I waited. Eventually, she would open my bedroom door and stare at me. I stared back with my expressionless face, feeling pangs of shame, happiness, and confusion. I’m pretty sure I just annoyed her with my sadness. It was evident in my boxed-room with things strewn across the floor, dust covering the mirrors and trinkets, not much light to speak of and orangish-yellow when it was there, and this smell of depression and shadows that never seemed to go away.

If I was able to venture out of my room for breakfast, I’d come right back after. Breakfast exhausted me. So, after eating, I’d lie in bed and watch YouTube videos. I didn’t like any of the videos I watched. I kept watching whatever YouTube recommended (as long as it was under four minutes), even if I wasn't interested, so of course the algorithm would recommend more videos based on what I’d watched. This cycle annoyed me. But I didn't know what I wanted from the videos. I wanted to feel entertained, I wanted to feel sad, I wanted to find solutions to my slowness, I wanted to forget about all of it, and most of all, I wanted to know that my life is bigger than me and that, in the grand scheme of things, my problems aren't that big. I rarely found a video for that.

The only time YouTube came close was when it recommended an old video of a ninety-year-old man on the verge of death. He said he was an atheist and he was scared of dying. I watched the whole eighteen-minute video. I felt for him deeply; I didn't want him to die. I wondered what or if he's thinking now; dead. Then I watched another video of an old person on their deathbed. These videos made me feel sad and better and hopeless. But their overarching effect was that they temporarily pulled me out of my bed-misery.

Sometimes, it helped to drive out to a library, twenty minutes away, by my sister’s apartment. I felt different there. It was a new place; cozy, quiet—except for the kids’ section on the left end. Some tables were against floor-to-ceiling-length windows which brought in a flood of light. I usually sat at one of those tables with my face turned towards the windows. There was a burst of productivity that dwindled, but that was with any place I went to “work.” Nothing could catch my attention and hold it for a long period of time. I said I was lazy, over and over again, and only to myself. And then I would question whether I was putting too much pressure on myself, and whether my short attention span was my fault. Then I’d say, well, you always have a great attention span for TV shows and movies. So I was in the habit of talking to myself like my mother would, which would annoy anyone.

Whatever I occupied myself with had an underlying lack of direction. Going to the library, for walks, watching videos, seeing my sister; all of it sustained me in the moment, but it almost always left me feeling a sense of nothingness. It wasn’t doom because doom implies that something is coming. Nothing was coming for me, and I wasn’t going for anything—not with all my effort, anyway—so there was emptiness all around, always.

But whenever I did anything, even the tiniest bit of effort on a particular day, I went to bed tired; devoid of any guilt about sleeping. My sleep felt deserved and real. My bed was comfortable, my face sank into my pillow, my blanket was pulled up to my chin, and I was huddled into a ball knowing tomorrow’s worries belonged to tomorrow.

One morning my sister mentioned that she was going to her friend Niazmeen Aunty's house for her birthday. I always say no to these things. She tells me about them whenever she goes and I refuse. It’s because I get sleepy, which means I’m unresponsive, so I look rude and it all ends in someone making a comment like you don’t talk much.

But my sister said it was just her and Niazmeen Aunty, so I thought about it. I asked her how Niazmeen Aunty is doing. I knew that she'd been diagnosed with cancer many years ago, and she was doing well now. I thought her cancer was gone. But my sister said, oh it's there, and we all know she's dying. I was shocked. She said it like it was common knowledge; a thing that’s just happening; no big deal. Her husband divorced her in the middle of her cancer treatment. She was working still as an engineer. I asked my sister why she's still working and she said it's because she still has to pay the bills.

I decided to go. It was indeed just the three of us, to my relief. Niazmeen Aunty was happy to see me. I think I hadn’t seen her in about two years or more. I noted that she included me in the conversation throughout and asked me questions. When my sister was talking to Niazmeen Aunty, Niazmeen Aunty would look at me during her reactions to what my sister said. If my sister said something funny, Niazmeen Aunty would look to me and laugh.

She talked about the work she was doing, like her well-building project. My sister told her I love exploring the old areas of Karachi and asked her for a list of places to see. She said she would send me a list. She also said she would take us to Quaid-e-Azam's mausoleum and arrange a beautiful recitation of Surah Al-Fatihah in the echoing walls of the chamber under the mausoleum.

I liked being there with her, and I couldn't believe this kind, gentle, and smart woman was slowly dying, and working, and living. She mentioned a girl who comes to her house and performs salon services—waxing, haircutting, blow-drying, manicures, and pedicures. I asked for her number. My sister and her decided they'd plan a small trip to explore old Karachi, because we all like doing that.

I went home and stared at my laptop and notebook and felt nothing. I was subdued. I wanted to cry. But the feeling was deeper than the familiar motion of crying. It was the feeling of randomly hearing a strong wind on a night where there is no other sound and it’s somehow only heard, not felt. Later, Niazmeen Aunty called my sister and they exchanged thanks over us visiting her and her hosting us. I told my sister to tell her that if she needed volunteers for her well-building project, I could help. Niazmeen Aunty had also mentioned going for a walk every night, so I told my sister to tell her we'll join her.

Somehow, I got myself up for a shower. It was hard but I took my clothes off, stepped under the showerhead at the top of the tub, and flipped the knob up. I turned it on high blast, not thinking anything of it. The eleven individual streams of water buzzed down on my head and collarbones, near-painfully so. But they made me feel like I was finally present in my own life. I was alive, even with my eyes closed. The warm water was almost hot, and I didn’t care because my body would always adapt to the temperature.

I washed my face and scrubbed and soaped everything else. Then I put on fresh clothes: a pressed white shalwar; a green and red kameez. I wrapped the towel around my hair and stared at my face in the mirror. My eyebrows looked thinner, and the shadows under my eyes were nearly nonexistent. I felt like I had almost reached someplace. I'm there. I didn’t know what I wanted from the day, but I was ready to take something from it. I was ready to want.

Parishae Ali is a writer with both a heart and brain; unfortunately, her brain is in Toronto and her heart is in Karachi. She writes and takes photographs pretty often, especially during her nature walks, but most of the time you can find her perfecting her eyebrow wave à la Cadbury eyebrow commercial.

Image: Patsy Wisniewski, Hard Light Still Life, photograph, 2021.

Edited for publication by Michelle St. Pierre, as part of the Professional Writing and Communications Program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.