Happiness and Other Disorders

By Ahmad Saidullah
Sculptures by Dustin Wenzel

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we’re in a taxi watching schoolchildren with cell phones and ear-phones, they’ll run out of ears there, she says what about it, did we bring any, and I say, what janno, presents, she glares, the stuff Hina sent, and I go, no, but I have the money, that would be enough for now, after all he’s a student, he can put it to use, presents can wait, fine, she sniffs, if that’s how you feel, money, it’s your nephew’s engagement, for god’s sake, there’s such a thing as an occasion, I wonder aloud what she’s like, this Milada, probably some pasty Czech from Brno fed on potatoes, when suddenly there’s Tariq with a newly minted moustache, all ninety pounds of him, in a bush shirt and a tuxedo, I bound out to hug him, while she’s paying off the cab, he says mamoojan, this is Milada, let me introduce you, my favourite uncle, doesn’t say his only uncle, bless him, next to him, his fiancée, but boy, was I wrong, she doesn’t fit into my field of vision no matter how I try, and, before I know it, I am gripped, breathless, by two white arms large as windmill blades cutting off my sight, ah how nice, Milada, I manage to squeak, goodness, I’ve gained a niece-in-law, what a one, I try hugging back and puckering up for some suavum, when she falls over, or rather I tilt back, knees all buckled with the sheer joy of it, and she lands on top of me, my breath knocked out of me with a whoosh like a bellows, luckily the ground was soft, but, Houston, that was some crash landing, when I woke up to my wife’s screams, Sami, are you all right, Sami, don’t die on me, Sami, not in this country, and then it’s much dusting and brushing of grass and leaves and some tittering but I am stunned and still prone, but my wife is hissing, OK, now, Sami, get up for god’s sake, you’re making a scene, and I say I can’t, my back’s gone, but look, if you want to give it to Tariq and that huge wife of his, the money’s in my back pocket, here, put your hand in, but now she is spitting, you know they’re not married, and I won’t, Sami, you do this every time, and I say when was the last time I was suffocated by a human airbag, but she goes on, people can hear you, but that’s good, I say, so maybe now someone can help me up which you’re not likely to do, and they come and they do, some dinner jackets, frilly tuxedos, aftershaves and even an achkan, lay me out on the drinks table, between the merlots and chardonnays, it’s agony, while Milada looms over me, never felt so helpless and do all I can not to go goo goo at those grey eyes in that vast red face, asking me if I’m OK, I nod feebly, she is chewing something, swilling a quart of wine, this good ship Milada Hidayatullah, god, what a name-to-be, too much for him, at last she spreads her sails and drifts crosswind, hsst, I call my wife, listen, janno, something, my ribs are probably cracked, it felt like an elephant squatted on me, I feel squashed, how much do you think she weighs, and she goes, why, do you have problems breathing, and then, oh, shut up, Sami, of course, that’s not funny, obesity is a disease in America, could be glandular, and I say, right, I’ve just been bagged by an entire glandular epidemic in one swoop, she must come from a good family, I reckon drinks are out, so pass me some canapés, you know, he’ll have to climb on top if he’s to get anywhere, and she is laughing and fuming at the same time, it was a sight though, really, Sami, she really is very sweet and was so upset by the whole thing, try to get up, this really is the last straw, well, yes, of course it is, and consider this camel’s back well and truly broken, oh fine, feel sorry for yourself, you uncle, she spat that out like an insult, and then they all come in turns to inquire and, when that formula’s done, pour out a drink behind my back, but when I strain to rotate my eyes to the back, I can see my hair, all shiny, and hear the polite mutterings of concern, I feel a bit like a corpse at an Irish wake if one felt at all, then it’s the chinking and glugging, ginger ale with scotch on the rocks, and wine and rum, god knows, and I am feeling giddy, with all that eye swivelling and handshaking, when that vision reappears like Chesterton’s man Sunday whom the eye can’t gird, saying something like mummyjan, but this time she’s got a long cognac chub of goose liver which she intends I bet to slather on that brick of Ryvita that she holds in her right hand and I feel very faint at the enormity of this insight, when Tariq says,

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