Counting Down with You(15)
“What about physics?” my dad asks, as my mom’s gaze grows heavy.
I bite my lip to withhold a sigh. Why would my parents want to hear a cool fact about Jimmy Carter anyway? “Yes, I’ve been doing my physics homework, too. We had an interesting lab assignment today. We had to weigh our shoes for it, so I was walking around in only my socks.”
“And precalculus?”
I don’t even have an answer for that one. “It’s fine.”
My dad’s eyes narrow, mirroring my mother’s expression, but before he can say anything, I turn the phone toward my grandma. “Dadu, Baba is on the phone.”
She looks up from her newspaper in surprise and reaches for my phone. I’m pretty sure she tunes me and Samir out half the time, unless we’re talking directly to her, and I don’t blame her.
Ever since Dada passed away, she has these days where she’s incredibly low-spirited. I know she misses him horribly, even if she never talks about it.
There are so many burdens she carries that I wish I could help her with, but there’s only so much I can do.
I busy myself with taking my plate to the kitchen and washing it. When I come back, Samir is on the couch with my grandma, leaning over my phone.
“Have you been eating enough?” my mom asks. When I take the seat next to Samir, I can see the worry etched into her expression. Again, I withhold a sigh. It’d be nice to receive some of that concern. I know my parents love and care about me, but they never show it the way they do for my brother.
“Yeah, Ma,” Samir says, holding up his arms to flex. “Look at my muscles. They’re growing!”
I pretend to gag, unimpressed, but he doesn’t notice, too busy kissing his nonexistent muscles.
My mom starts cooing like she always does around Samir, and I roll my eyes, reaching for the remote to switch the channel now that he’s not playing video games anymore.
“Hey,” he complains, trying to knock the remote out of my hand.
“Hey what?” I say, smacking his arm. “You’re not even using the TV now. You’ve been hogging it all day.”
“I was in the middle of something!” he says, stretching his body across mine. I wriggle out from underneath him and clutch the remote behind my back. “Myra Apu, give it back!”
“No,” I say, pushing him away. “You use the TV every day, I just want it for an hour to—”
“Myra, give Samir the remote.”
I fall silent and stare at my phone, still held in my grandma’s hand. My mom doesn’t say anything else, but saying it once is enough. Almost robotically, I give my brother the remote and sit down beside my grandma.
Between my parents, my mom has always been more strict. I think it’s because Dadu raised my dad. Yet he still follows my mom’s lead, so it’s not like it really helps.
My maternal side tends to be more conservative in nature, even if they’re all really nice people. We clash on quite a few of our views, partly because I’m part of the Bangladeshi diaspora, and partly because my outlook on life tends to be more liberal. While I firmly believe there’s nothing wrong with being a more conservative Muslim, it’s hard to relate to my family when I feel so on the outside of what they expect from me. I try my best to always be open and understanding about how everyone interprets their faith, because I’d want the same courtesy for myself.
I’ve always believed that Islam on its own is beautiful. Islam in the hands of people who are determined to tear others down—not as beautiful. It’s the same way with any culture, any religion. There will always be people who carry out beliefs without stopping to think of the meaning behind them, who follow without question, who don’t think about who they might hurt in the process.
I partake in religious activities when I have the time—praying helps with my anxiety—whereas Dadu prays five times a day and constantly rereads the Quran. She’s much more religious than I am, but that’s never been a problem between us. She loves me, and I love her, and we’re both devoted to Allah in different ways.
With my parents...things are more complicated.
Dadu presses her leg against mine, drawing my attention to her. She offers me a small smile before turning back to my phone.
I don’t say anything else as she bids them goodbye. Before she hangs up, my mom says, “And Myra, make sure my Hindi serials are being recorded. I want to watch them when I get back, so don’t fill up the DVR with those silly reality shows you like to watch. And be nice to your brother. We’re not there to look after him, so you have to do it.”
“Ma,” my brother whines, dragging the word out. “Nobody needs to look out for me.”
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.
What were the other things Google said about coping with anxiety? Aromatherapy? Maybe I need to buy some candles.
“Myra?”
My grandma is holding out my phone, the screen dark. I take it and start to get off the couch, but before I can, my grandma wraps her fingers around my wrist. “What were you saying earlier?”
My brain feels like it’s filled with white noise. “What?”
“About that president you like. What did he do?”
“Uh...” I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. President... Oh. I didn’t realize she was paying attention. “Right. So President Jimmy Carter ran for governor of Georgia before he was president. He campaigned on a super Republican-esque platform while being a Democrat and basically said he would support racism against Black people, which is obviously whack. But then when he was elected, he was all like just kidding! and said Black people deserve the same opportunities as everyone else and should be treated equally. All the racist people who voted for him were so appalled because they thought he would support their views, but he really just scammed them into voting for him. Isn’t that interesting?”