A Shared Orbit

Jamal found out at 7 a.m. on a Friday that his wife Mira was nowhere to be found. 

Mira was the occasional morning runner. According to her, that was the only time she had to herself most days. But he had spotted her workout clothes neatly arranged at their designated spot, and her running shoes still drying over the vent at 6:30 a.m. 

Jamal immediately checked under the bed because this was a practical joke she played on him often. The thought seemed foolish now, since they had gotten into an argument the night before. 

He started replaying the fight in his head, but then pushed it away, all the way back. No jokes were taking place after that unresolved facet of marital “bliss.” As a protest, they had both decided to sleep at extreme ends of the same bed, the forlorn and unutilized no man’s land— radiating cold abandonment.

The house was too quiet. It felt unsettling. 

At 6:50 a.m., Jamal felt the exaggerated need to play detective. He performed a dramatic swivelling manoeuvre and hopped out of bed.

He went to the nursery where their 18-month-old was sleeping peacefully. He bent over her crib and sniffed the air, then patted the diaper. It appeared fresh. 

He tiptoed out of the room and down the hallway, into the kitchen. A half-empty baby bottle lay in the kitchen sink, but no sign of Mira. Where is she? Jamal thought, quickening his pace. He made his way to the mudroom—the car keys were gone. Mira’s bag was not there either. 

Panic fluttered inside him. I should call her, he thought as he grabbed his phone, about to unlock it, but then stopped. But maybe she wants space. Is she on a rage drive? 

Last night after their fight, Mira wanted to go on a post-fight-rage walk, but when she was one step out the front door, Jamal reminded her that the neighborhood chat had warned of coyote sightings. So she had huffed and banged the front door close and stomped off to the bedroom to sleep in the farthest corner of her side of the bed.

Jamal realised he was only being antsy because they had ended the previous day on an unpleasant note. She’s probably running an errand, no big deal, Jamaal thought. He had never panicked about an unannounced morning absence before. 

Then again, she always poked and prodded his sleepy self before leaving the house. He started looking around for a note. There wasn’t one on the fridge, the counters were void of activity—pristine, providing no clues. She might need space but I need to know what’s going on. He rummaged through his pockets and unlocked his phone. 

There was, in fact, a message from her. He tapped on the message faster than when he was courting her. 

Brb. Have my thing today.

What thing? I don’t know about a “thing…” Jamal checked his cellphone calendar. Nothing stood out to him…just the usual meetings. But he noticed he had blocked out a couple of morning hours for today in a neon green, unlabelled. He could not recollect when and why? 

Today is Jummah too…would Mira be back by then? How would I manage taking Amal with me? He quickly informed his team of his work-from-home plans. 

Looking at her message, he still felt disgruntled from the argument last night, trying to also understand her need for space for her “thing.” He replied with a nonchalant “ok” and decided to get an early start while his daughter was still asleep.

Jamal started making breakfast and realised he was rusty…he had not done this in the longest time. He hadn’t even noticed they had swapped out frying pans…they had a stainless steel one now. His fried egg stuck to the surface of the pan and the scraping made the egg an inedible delicacy. Looking at the burnt mess, Jamal wanted to apologize to the hen that had laid that egg as he tossed it into the compost bin.

Jamal then watched a video to learn to use the pan properly. Medium to full heat. Splash some water into the pan. Apparently tiny balls of water had to dance around the pan to announce it “ready” to receive oil, followed by the egg. 

The cooked egg was perfect. The second time’s the charm! Jamal scooped it up while humming, rather proud of himself. Until he saw the time…it had taken him 45 minutes to make eggs…

How did Mira make it look so easy? Or have my life skills taken a nose dive? 

Jamal fumbled as could not locate tea bags, so decided to go with coffee. But where were the coffee filters? He found a couple of old green tea bags in a cupboard, so lukewarm green tea became the necessary choice. He did not know where the other tea bags were kept anymore. When was the last time I made us my special chai after dinner?

Normally, he got ready to go to work at this time, then played a little with baby Amal before heading out for the day. All the while, Mira made breakfast. When he returned home from work every night, he took over baby duties and Amal’s night-time routine while Mira cleaned up. 

He was often applauded for this, especially by his mom and his aunts who lamented on their own youth and how lucky the girls of today were that their husbands changed poopy diapers and put their kids to sleep. Mira vented to Jamal afterwards, telling him that she found their praise “basic” and rolled her big brown eyes so high only the whites of her eyes remained. Jamal, too, felt a little embarrassed when this happened. He often reminded the ladies that they had a “village” in their time, a whole group of women dividing duties and responsibilities and overwhelm. 

We would have thrived with a village….

He sat down on the table with his tea and breakfast. It felt weird without Mira pattering about. He wished they had more time to sit and have a relaxed meal together rather than the hurried, silent ones with a toddler. 

The time after work and dinner often had them so wiped out, they both just watched a show while Mira mustered up energy to work on an art piece of hers. She could no longer paint while Amal was awake, when one fine day, Amal decided to flip the paint boxes and imprint the whole living room with her painted footsteps.

Maybe we could both wake up earlier and catch up, post-fajr, just when Amal is put to sleep again after her morning bottle… 

He was about to take a bite of his egg when his phone buzzed—it was his mother-in-law. Umm, what? She never called me directly. He briskly answered, assuming something must be wrong.

“Salam beta.”

“Walaikumsalam Aunty, how are you?”

“Alhamdulillah. Beta I hope I did not wake you.”

“No, no, Aunty, I was up. Khairiat hai na? All is well, I hope?” he asked.

“Yes beta, I was not getting through to Mira. Nothing too important, I asked her to measure Amal baby’s foot so I could get her a khussa. I was going to head to the shop today. No worries, koi baat nahin, I can go tomorrow.”

“Sure, Aunty, I will let her know.”

There was an awkward pause. 

“Chalo theek hai beta, it’s okay, take care.” 

“Umm, Aunty, I can measure Amal’s foot. She is here with me.”

“Will you, beta?! Thank you, Jazakallahu khairun kaseera! Just message me later. This is a huge favor. Shukriya.”

“Aunty, it’s nothing, really”

“Beta, I have been telling Amal since forever but she keeps forgetting. I don’t know where this girl’s head is at….”

Hearing the jab, a protective feeling tugged at his heart over his wife.

”Thank you, beta. Allah hafiz!”

“Allah hafiz,” he muttered.

He got up, took the tape measure from a drawer and tiptoed to the nursery. One pudgy edible foot rested itself on the rail of the crib as if in invitation. He managed to get an estimate and quickly texted it to Aunty. 

Aunty replied with a caucasian thumbs up, deleted that and followed up with a brown thumbs up, a “Shukriya” sticker written in Urdu and a bright yellow “JazakAllah” nestled between two red beating hearts. 

Aunty’s enthusiastic gratitude would have felt quite comical if it was any other day. But at that moment, Jamal was in deep thought. He realised how different things were for him and Mira. He only talked to his in-laws if he was in view while his wife talked to them, and even then it was always just a brief Salam-how are you-hope-all-is-well type of greeting. Even today, his immediate thought was: Is everything okay?

Mira, on the other hand, had to have an unspoken-but-expected-nonetheless weekly ritual of catching up with his parents. If she did not, there was an immediate implication that something was “off.” She also stayed in touch with his cousins, remembering birthdays, gifts, etc.

He kept replaying his mother-in-law’s casual, “Where this girl’s head is at…” 

Jamal looked around. Where? Maybe everywhere.

This home that Mira ran as a one woman army was no easy feat, especially being isolated for the majority of the day. Even when she did something for herself, she ensured all ducks were in a row, the stars were aligned, nothing was in retrograde. 

He glanced over at one of her half-finished paintings by the drying rack—a work of abstract art representing what seemed like a galaxy, with a bright yellow orb at the center and planets or moons with varying trajectories. He walked over and touched the dried paint, feeling the canvas and the bumps of acrylic paint. 

Mira is like the sun, he thought, keeping us warm, providing the necessary gravitational pull to us planets so we didn’t go off track. We are forever aligned. But…parallel, not together, not on the same trajectory.

A different orbit.

Jamal knew what he did was important too. A single income household in this economy meant he had to be perfect. Even after fatherhood, he didn’t stop or lessen his load, while Mira became a full-time mother and left her previous life behind. And she had had a brilliant life. She was a talented artist and also taught Fine Arts at a prestigious university, while exhibiting her own work in local art galleries.

When was the last time I asked her if she was happy? She feels a little…lost lately. Maybe I was a little insensitive last night.

He quickly took out his phone again and typed another message under the nonchalant “ok”

Hey, listen, take your time, we are good here.

Mira is typing…

Are you sure?

Yeah, no worries. I got this.

Thanks. 

He was about to puncture the yolk of his beautiful egg when a cry pierced the silence, his thoughts and possibly his chance to eat. 

___________________________________________________________________________

Jamal tried consoling Amal but she kept crying and looking around for her mom. This was a change in routine for her. When he tried putting her on her high chair, she got as stiff as a board and rendered his efforts useless. They shared his breakfast, his plate now decorated with mushed berries next to his egg. 

All of his late morning meetings took place with her on his lap. His chai lay forgotten in the microwave. Jamal wondered what Amal had even eaten since all the food was mostly plastered on her onesie or on the floor. 

Finally, when all meetings were concluded, it took him another hour to make Amal, and then himself, presentable enough to reenter polite society. He then secured her into the stroller and took that time to pick up the mess they had both created to salvage the living area. 

Jamal’s mom decided to call during this inopportune moment and during the call he noticed how the conversation revolved around when his wife would return and how amazing he was.

“Must be so hard for you beta. God knows where this girl has gone and left you all alone…”

Guilt and shame riddled his thoughts as he walked to the masjid, and continued even inside as he parked the stroller in the foyer and began taking off Amal’s shoes. First of all, there was no concept of fathers keeping toddlers with them at this masjid. 

Then came the constant barrage of questions.

“Brother, why isn’t she with your wife?” asked one.

“Maybe try buckling her in her seat so she can stay put,” said another.

“Is she wearing a diaper?” followed by, “but, are you sure nothing will leak?”

“I hope she does not disturb us. How can we pray with a toddler running around?” an elderly man added.

I don’t know Uncle, Jamal replied in his mind. The same way the mothers manage behind the wall.

Then there were multiple inquiries into where “the mother” was. At this point Jamal felt the world around him was lowkey obsessed with his wife.

He demoted himself to the last saff of the congregation for some privacy and space for Amal to run around. Thankfully, a four-year-old decided to entertain her while he prayed. There was no socializing after, he grabbed Amal and prayed nobody had walked off with the stroller because only the women’s prayer area allowed strollers in their foyer. 

It was only 1:30 p.m but Jamal felt he had been awake and running for eighteen hours. As they walked back home, his mind drifted to the events of the previous night.

Mira had expressed she felt overwhelmed and depressed and nobody understood her. In an attempt to help, he had recommended therapy. That comment elicited a murderous response. And then it all went downhill. Hey buddy, maybe trying to “solve” the issue by telling your overworked and depressed wife to “try therapy” was a faux pas. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

Jamal reflected on how he always considered himself a good father. He worked hard to provide his family a comfortable life. And when he was at home, he was fully involved in the parenting process. 

Yet, how involved am I, really? 

To the world, Mira had “taken a break from work” but she still worked around the clock—work that seemed invisible to the world, only because her trajectory was measured differently. He knew but he didn’t care to admit, because that would shake the foundation of the current “system.” But the truth was, Mira missed being an art instructor, she missed her students. 

Maybe she misses who she was. Maybe I miss her too.

Jamal knew Mira loved being a mom but he could not help but feel she was losing herself in the process. He missed that side of her. But am I doing enough to help her keep that side intact? They turned a corner and Jamal almost cried with joy when he saw their SUV parked on the driveway. 

“Mama’s home!” he shouted in excitement, realizing the entire street must have heard him. He quickened his pace and also realised that this was probably what Mira felt every time he pulled into the driveway, that he was home, and relief would follow. He burst through the door and did not bother to contain his excitement. 

“Okay then…” Mira said while Jamal noisily manoeuvred the stroller inside. 

“Oh hello! You’re back!”

“Umm, yeah. Why do you look frazzled and…traumatized? Where were you”?

“The masjid, for jummah.”

Mira’s eyes widened in surprise. “That must have been an experience. I just can’t go anymore. Amal…”

“Runs away every two seconds and the aunties ‘tut tut’?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Joke’s on me for attempting to invoke positive community experiences like the parenting podcast encouraged. Come to think of it, the podcast host doesn’t even have kids…”

Jamal chuckled, and walked towards Mira, beaming. “Anyway, how was your morning? What were you up to?”

“I had my annual physical check up today, remember?”

Jamal nodded. Oh, so that’s what it was!

“All good?” he asked.

“Yes Alhamdolillah,” she said. Then added, “I ran into Nora there, we had a nice chat. When you messaged me that you were good I asked her if she would like to have breakfast with me. We got to catch up.”

“That’s great jaan, how is she? How’s the art department?”

“All is well and bright and merry I guess. She runs the department now. She asked me again if I wanted to fill in part-time.”

“Again? Nora reached out to offer you a job? Why didn’t you tell me?’

Mira snorted and raised her hands in mild exasperation. “I was trying last night, I was getting there. You didn’t let me get there before shoving therapy in my face…”

Jamal winced in embarrassment.

Then she added, “I’m sorry, I cannot go through that spiel again. My brain hurts.”  

“No, jaan. I’m sorry. I realized today what kind of day you have everyday. I mean I love my kid but she can be a handful.”

“She’s fine! She’s not a handful, maybe I need to adjust my expectations. I agreed to this, being home full time…”

“Mira,” he began and put both his hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay, this is hard and it is okay to say so.”

Mira’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I am struggling, Jamal. I love Amal but I can’t even enjoy being her mother because the domestic stuff just doesn’t leave me alone. I feel so lonely. And I know I have a purpose but I also feel I have lost all purpose and I absolutely can’t talk to anyone because they keep reminding me how lucky I am and I should be grateful. But I’m slowly withering away, I don’t feel welcome at the masjid, I can’t be in the Run Club because they don’t allow kids, I can’t teach a class because apparently we have a system that works and I am, what did you say, ‘going to spin everything off its axis…’”

Jamal felt heat rising to his cheeks. How did I not see this?

“I feel this constant pressure to be ‘happy’. And I know I said I can handle this end and you handle that one but then you just rode off into the sunset without a backward glance with your clothes that still fit you and your fancy promotion while I’m here living in yoga pants smelling like an alley cat.”

Jamal watched Mira move around her arms in all directions while speaking, finally resting her hands on top of her head, plopping down on a beanbag.

He sat down beside her and took her hand. “You are not an alley cat, you are the coolest cat.”

Mira rolled her eyes at his cheesiness, yet there was a hint of a smile at the edge of her lips. “Well, I don’t feel like it and I think that’s all that matters.” 

“You’re right. It was only a few hours for me today and I feel like I’ve run a marathon. I realise now that it is hard and I don’t want you to lose yourself because that means I lose you too. I thought I was doing my bit, but maybe I have not been as present. We will figure it out, jaan…and it won’t be a ‘bandaid solution’ this time.”

Mira laughed at that reference from her words last night and came in for a hug. Amal started clapping. 

After putting Amal to bed, Jamal made chai for the both of them and they talked and hashed out details for a much-needed change in their galaxy. 

Epilogue

“I’m late! Oh God, oh God!” Mira exclaimed while shoving her feet inside her boots. “I don’t want to be late. The Saturday class is the serious one, they actually want to learn something, unlike the Tuesday and Thursday batches!”

Jamal chuckled, “Hey, don’t hate on the kids, they are trying to find themselves.”

“Find!? My foot. Nora is torturing me!”

“She is not, it’s been a while, she just wants to see where you will fit, that’s all. Pretty sweet of her to work around our availability. Studio time is a bonus too, you know.”

“Yeah you’re right. By the way, a weekly reminder for you to double check meetings.”

“Done and done for next week. Soon enough my team will know your schedule better than you do,” he said with a chuckle. “Anyways, I made you a panini!” he said, handing her a sandwich container.

“Should I be afraid?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Wow, no faith in a man’s skill. It’s a sandwich, not rocket science.”

“Oh how I detest that expression…”

“Go go, save the expression for art.”

“Where is my car mug?”

Jamal handed her the mug, “Here you go!” 

“Okay, I am literally a text away, take care of my bacha…” she said, starting with her slew of instructions. 

“Our child, and she’s with her Baba, whose parenting skills are absolutely not entirely deplorable.”

“And do not burn my house down…”

“Our house. And yes that would indeed be inconvenient…”

“I will call for updates.”

“You are allowed one, as usual.”

“Iknow, I need to trust the process. Moving parts but it works. We will find a rhythm in our little galaxy.” 

“Speak for yourself, we already have rhythm don’t we, Amal? Yes I know, Mama has two left feet.”

“Wow. I don’t like you.” She said and stuck out her tongue.

“But we love you!” Our eternal sunshine.

And as Jamal watched his wife walk out the door, for the first time he truly felt that her absence no longer left them feeling misaligned. Her warmth stayed with them. 

There were bound to be collisions, moments of orbit-hopping, but just like the abstract nature of Mira’s, now-finished galaxy painting hanging over the fireplace, their little galaxy came with its own rules. 

A perfectly imperfect shared orbit at last.