grow numb ayesha umair

GROW NUMB

WORDS & ART by AYESHA UMAIR

The women of the forest would walk along the edges of the thick bushes, past the clear water, stopping to admire an occasion-

al flower or smooth stone. They would walk together, wrapping cord around shafts to make arrows, making garments, tanning furs. Their mouths would burst with laughter, berries, and stories. They would pound cedar leaves to relieve colds. They would collect twine to build baskets. And they knew the forest well. And the forest knew them well. They knew of the mountains nearby, and which face was the most dangerous to climb up. They knew where the dormouse slept during the winter. And, most importantly, they would always warn each other of danger. “Do not go near that lake.” “Why not?” “It is salty; no fish can live in it and washing clothes in it makes them dry up.” “Oh.” Caravans would come by, close to the edge of the forest, to trade goods and take the furs to faraway villages that only existed in the women’s stories. They would buy books, daggers, and necklaces

from the caravans. Of course, they bought other things, too. But only those things feel as if they should be mentioned. A girl, who knew of the mountains and the dormouse and was one of the women of the forest, went to sift through the books brought by the caravans. The heft of books, so grown-up and significant, made her grin. The pages had drawings on them, sometimes in colour, sometimes not. She liked the ones with more words, so that she could think of drawings instead of simply seeing them. As she leafed through the pages, she came across the myth of Narcissus. She read that he was a hunter, who loved beautiful things. He once looked into a lake, and upon seeing his own reflection, became so entranced by that he fell into the water and drowned. Where he fell, a narcissus lily bloomed. The girl was perplexed by the story. Lakes were for catching fish, washing clothes, and dyeing garments. They were not for gazing into, and for drowning in. Such things were only done by idle people, not by the women of the forest. Nevertheless, the girl bought the book for a set of arrows she had made, and took it back to the forest. Perhaps if she read it again, it would make more sense. So, as she walked back to where the women had gathered to build a fire, she decided to read it again. The girl turned to the first page, smoothed it out, and read. Narcissus was a hunter who loved beautiful things, she read. He once looked into a lake, she read. As she read she realized that, while puzzling over her book, she had gotten close to the salty lake. The one that the women warned not to go near. The girl closed the book. “You are a salty lake. The women of the forest have told me about you. There are no fish within you, and you cannot even be used to dye garments or wash clothes,” she said. She listened carefully. It sounded strange. It almost sounded as if a child was weeping. The girl moved closer to the lake, and was shocked to find that the weeping noise, the sound of inaudible, wrenching sobbing, was coming from within the lake. “Why are you weeping?” She ventured closer, steadily, until she finally saw her own reflection in the water. Her eyes widened, and the stones and mountains and trees began to fade away in memory. The girl touched the surface of the water, marvelling at how it clinged onto her fingers, as if it wanted to be held. As if it was a child, begging for consolation, for comfort. As if it was a vine, growing around her, with small leaves and sprouts. She heard a voice call her from the forest. The girl jumped up out of her trance, shaken; one of the women was calling her. She looked back at the lake, with curious fear, and then turned to run back to the other women as the day began to recede. The women of the forest would gather together at the end of the day to watch the sun sink, surrounded by the colour of flame. Sunsets were the girl’s favorite, not because they had so much colour or because they were quiet, but because she knew that after the sunset, the stars would come out. They would awake, one by one, and they twinkled as if they were laughing. And sometimes, when everyone was asleep, she would quietly laugh with the stars. But tonight, she did not. Tonight, she wondered whether the weeping lake ever laughed with the stars. Did the lake even see the stars? Or was it blinded by its bitter tears? The more she thought, the more anxious she became. Had the lake ever seen the sunset? Did the lake know about the mountains? And, full of doubts and worries, she drifted off to sleep. The next day, after a dreamless sleep, she awoke early to find the book beside her. The girl stood up, arching herself to stretch, and slipped away to run to the salty lake. As she ran, she passed by cedar trees, a river, and a web, covered in shining dew. The iridescent colours of the web flew by her, blurring into a spectrum, as she ran. The girl began to slow to a gait, and then walked quietly towards the lake. And again, she heard the same sound of weeping. It was more wrenching, more of a feeble bawl today. She saw colourless bubbles on the surface, as if the lake was sputtering. She looked around, not knowing how to console it. Her gaze fell on the book in her hand. So, to calm the waters, she read aloud. Narcissus was a hunter who loved beautiful things. He once looked into a lake. And with that, the lake cried out. It wailed. Its waters became saltier, more bitter, and its bubbles became colourless. Brine began to reach up to the girl, pattering at her ankles. “Why do you weep?” the girl asked. “I weep for Narcissus.” She was taken aback. “I see,” she whispered. “Many people pursued Narcissus, you know. In a forest like this one. And only the lake in which he drowned knew how beautiful he was. Is that why you are bitter?” “I am bitter because of Narcissus, but not because he was beautiful.” Her eyes widened, and the pages of the book in her hand began to twitch with the wind. “I am bitter because, when he looked into me, I showed him his reflection. I beckoned him to look, to stay. And he drowned. And now, there is no one to look into me. There is no one that is entranced by my waters.” The sobbing of the lake became quiet. It was now worse than sobbing; it was the agonizing grief of a memory that no longer existed. The lake became agitated again, and wailed. “Narcissus is gone.” The girl felt tears well in her eyes. The world became blurred, like the iridescent colours of a web. Tracing the outlines of the book in her hands, she took a breath, a sigh. She brought her face close to the lake, and kissed its surface. “Do not weep; do not let your waters remain bitter,” she murmured. “Do not weep, for Narcissus is not gone. He may have drowned, but he lies within you.” And with that, the lake became still. x

ART by LINAH HEGAZI

ART by SAADIA SHAHID