The Infestation

Content Warning: The following story contains themes of child abuse and mild gore.

Saira Khatoon sat on the white sheets amidst the grievers as they shook back and forth. In front of her were date seeds and red beans lined up in depleting mounds as the women would occasionally scoop up fists full of them. Saira stared at the hands of the woman right next to her— some distant relative of the dead man who might have met him no more than perhaps twice during his living days. She watched as the woman released her handful of pits into her lap one after the other, her voice breaking as she muttered various prayers of absolution— Subhanallah… Allahu Akbar… La ilaaha ilallah— 

Saira found it to be a strange phenomenon: that these grievers were drowning in tears yet she herself— the spouse of the dead man— had nothing inside of her to let out. At some point, one of those distant relatives came and suffocated her with what may have been, at any other time, a comforting hug. 

Right now, her skin crawled as she repeated the same words, “It’s alright, you can cry… now, now… it’s okay to cry.”

Saira held her breath and held back the urge to shove her away. 

When they asked her to view his face for the last time, she quickly glanced at him out of obligation— his skin all mottled and wrinkly in his advanced years spent on the home-care bed— then turned away. She felt something then— a slight tremor in her hand. Yet, again it was not grief. She was sure it was not grief when she lifted her palms for some obligatory funeral prayer, or when they finally sealed the man in his grave, or even when she came back home to sleep in after the long day. For how could grief possibly be felt for a man who had already been on his deathbed for the past eight years? 

The new morning spilled into the bedroom through half-lidded windows. As Saira began to pull herself out of bed, she noticed a single ant aimlessly crawling on the pillow the dead man once occupied a long, long time ago. It was a poor little thing. A speck whose antennas searched wildly for a way out of the seemingly endless floral pattern. It was uncertainty that struck her then— what to do now with her life? 

As she plucked the ant from his pillow, she recalled the day before, when the young nurse reassured her, “Your husband passed away in his sleep… Don’t worry, Aunty… he was at peace in his final moments.” 

Why does he get to be at peace?

Saira threw the ant into the bathroom sink and turned the water on. A strange sort of contempt stirred in her. She watched as the creature helplessly scrambled to escape its fate but still continued to circle down the drain.

Saira ripped off the gaudy pillow cover and threw it in the laundry bin.

In the kitchen, Saira rummaged through the cabinets to find something to eat. Most of the kitchen shelves were lined with various brands of hospital pudding, mostly vanilla, coconut and rice— flavours preferred by the dead man. As she reached out for a lone box of oats on one of the shelves, she noticed a thin, dark line protruding from a hole in the wall. Saira drew closer and saw a single file of ants crawling their way into a half-opened cup of coconut pudding— the dead man’s last meal— sitting on the counter. She expelled a breath— lifting the cup with a paper towel and dumping it in the garbage bin. Grabbing a Mortein bottle, she sprayed all over the line. One by one, the ants dropped onto the counter— squirming and curling up as their life gave out. Saira lathered the counter with dish wash liquid and wiped off their bodies. It’s not fair. Why is it always so easy for him?

After breakfast, Saira ended up on the living room couch. The dead man peered at her through the picture on the wall— captured at some point before he had succumbed to the home-care bed about eight years ago. His hair had begun to thin and streaks of gray lined his temples. The crow’s feet formed reliefs around his eyes as he grinned like the devil. 

Saira grabbed the remote and switched the television on. While she tidied up the space, the channel played a documentary on Polyergus ants in the background. The narrator’s assured voice now entered, “…What is most fascinating about the Polyergus ants is that they raid other ant colonies, steal their pupae… and as soon as they hatch, the kidnapped ants are set to work as slaves for the colony—”

Saira switched the television off and threw the remote on the couch. She grabbed a rag, dunked it in cleaning liquid, and scrubbed down the T.V. screen. She was breathing heavily.

Just then, the post came sliding in through the slot in the front door. 

Letters and cards from yet more distant relatives, all containing curated words of empathy— We are sorry for your loss…Your husband is in a better place now…Keeping him in our prayers. Saira skipped past all of them and ended up on an invoice—

Billed To: Mrs. Saira Khan

Issued By: Peaceful Rest Cemetery

Saira skimmed through the whole page and landed on the last section— 

Total Amount Due: PKR 150,000

The remaining payment is due within 7 days after the burial.

She set down this final insult and placed her hand on her forehead, glaring up at the dead man. His grin was even more contorted now— blatantly amused by the ill-timed joke. What more do you want from me?

Saira’s gaze travelled towards yet another dark line. It was a much longer trail— protruding from right behind the picture frame and continuing onto the floor.

Saira followed them and ended up in front of the guest room. She hesitated by the doorway. The home-care bed was still set up in the middle of the room. It was flanked by stands on either side— the various IV bags and pipes still hanging like condemned prisoners. This had been the dead man’s true sepulchre for the past eight years. The stagnant air still carried the faint smell of urine. Saira held her breath. Even though she had grown used to that smell over the years of tending to him, the bile still threatened to come up.

She entered the room with slow, heavy steps. Her gaze fell upon the floor again. The ant trail was still there— an unbroken line. But it was accompanied by another line sprouting up from the wall on the right— and another one entering from the window on the left. One line sprung up from behind the ceiling lamp. Another made its way down from the dead man’s bed. And there were many more.

All these lines converged at the side table standing beside the bed. 

Saira opened the drawer where they were all entering. A picture frame lay face down in one corner. She lifted it up. The picture was of a little girl swathed in a bride’s costume and a serious, middle-aged man who stood behind her.

Her mind recalled it as a rather strange and hazy day.

Saira jaan, go get dressed in those pretty clothes over there… Her mother’s voice was distant and unsteady. We’ll take your picture…

At first, it was the excitement of dressing up like a princess, of people feeding her gulab jaamun without her having to ask for it— of all the attention and gifts she received as she sat all decorated on the stage.

But then, the strange man came up and stood behind her. She did not like it when he smiled at her and adjusted her dupatta. She did not like it when he remained behind her as her picture was being taken. He never left after that.

Ants scuttled across the preserved memory. They piled on top of each other, writhing and squirming over the little girl’s face— her expression obscured.

A shriek emerged from somewhere inside of Saira Khatoon as she flung the frame onto the nearest wall. Glass and ants scattered all across the floor— they were everywhere. They stabbed at her feet. They clambered up her legs— up her stomach— her chest. They swarmed up to her neck and went into her throat. She wailed and gagged— knocked sideways into the stands. She swiped at her mouth to make them go away— but they were persistent.

Saira stumbled out of the room— the ants had begun to bite at her skin. She scratched and teared at her clothes until the cuts drew blood. She could not breathe. Her skin was on fire.

She barged into the bathroom and clawed at the tap handle. As the tub filled up, she collapsed into the water’s cold embrace.

Saira Khatoon cried as the ants drowned and rose up to the water’s surface— creating a film of little carcasses all around her. She cried as the water overflowed and the carcasses floated away with it. She cried until she was left with herself in the tub— cradling the little girl who had been buried somewhere inside of her. After all those years, her expression was now visible.