Free That Other Me by Maha Gargash Page A

hair cut short just like a boy’s—no doubt for the purpose of being inflammatory. “ Marhaba , Ammi,” she says in greeting, shrugging the argument to one side and rising to shake my hand. I sniff and nod my hello back at her from a distance, deciding not to get pulled into the discussion because, simply, she has no business being on this side of the room with the men.
    It was in the early 1980s that, after a couple of years of marriage, she divorced her husband with the excuse that he was a lazy drunk, indifferent toward her. To the chagrin of her family, she didn’t go back to live with them. Instead she rented an apartment and sought employment at the Ministry of Public Works. Then she took study leave to get a degree in architectural engineering (a most unusual vocation for a woman) at the Emirates University in Al-Ain, and returned to the ministry once she was done to work as an engineer in the Tenders and Contracts Department. What business does she have sticking her nose in a man’s world, as if she were his equal? That’s what I’d like to know.
    I’d hoped I would be able to reflect on what Mustafa just told me in the majlis, but that will have to wait. The spacious living room suddenly seems too small, with all these people in it. And here comes another one.
    With stick in hand, my mother trudges into the room, looking weighed down, wearing all that heavy gold in traditional designs. Through her burka she keeps her eyes fixed to the ground like a grazing sheep. “Mama Al-Ouda!” the children sing, and frog-leap to hug her, diving at her knees like a giant wave and nuzzling their faces into her ankles.
    â€œGet them away,” she grumbles. “Do you want me to fall and break my bones?” Mona yanks them off and marches them all the way out to the kitchen to be fed by the maids.
    Amal says, “We can proudly say you’re the only woman of your age who hasn’t broken any bones.”
    â€œ Tuff, tuff ,” Mama Al-Ouda lets out, and fake spits into her burka to ward off wicked spirits. She waves her hand in front of her face and rubs her fingers for extra protection. “ Hib-hib , salt in your gaze to remove the evil eye.”
    â€œSay ‘masha’Allah,’ ” Aisha says, carrying in another bowl, which smells like shrimp curry.
    â€œMasha’Allah!” everyone chimes, and we take turns greeting Mama Al-Ouda.
    Two of the older children carry in a chair and a side table for my mother, who at eighty-seven suffers from nothing more than stiff joints and slight loss of hearing. The rest of us settle on the floor. In the middle are two large trays of rice mixed with meat, and a tray of plain white rice to be eaten with the three varieties of curry and two types of fried fish. Placed along the edges of the mats are plates of radishes, Indian pickles, and dates. Cans of fizzy Coca-Cola, 7 Up, and Mirinda sit to my side, as do two jugs of limboo and a bottle of Tabasco.
    Bending forward over the mats, we scoop rice and meat with our right hands. The room is quiet, as if someone had flicked off a switch that was responsible for the ruckus of moments earlier. We are like a pack of wolves. Only Aisha eats slowly, tipping her burka discreetly to one side with every mouthful. There is some civility, a dignity I might say, to the way she twirls the rice into marble-sized balls, dirtying only the tips of her thumb and the two fingers closest to it.
    With our tummies filling, an animated discussion starts. There’s the plumber’s failure to locate the source of the leakage, and our two new maids, hired to replace one we had to send back to the Philippines. “I just don’t know,” says Aisha, shaking her head, “how I’m going to manage. They’re proving to be nowhere near as efficient or clever, impossible to train.” Any conversation among the women about the help is bound to bring out every dogged opinion,