Fahim's Day Off

The office clamored with sounds of keyboards clattering and chatter. Fahim sat upright working on the latest analysis. In between his rigorous typing, he sipped coffee from his insulated mug. His coworker, Eric, approached him.

“Morning Fahim! Is that the new Colombian roast in the office pantry?” he asked energetically.

“Just a regular dark roast, milk and sugar,” Fahim replied reservedly.

“Nice! Those always get me through the morning briefings. I’m trying a new Chai Tea Latte today. It has a kick to it,” he regaled.

Fahim chuckled, looking away.

“What is it?” Eric asked.

“Chai tea is a bit redundant. Chai just means tea.”

“Oh- oh my gosh. I had no idea, I just asked the barista for something with less caffeine. I am so wired these mornings,” Eric confessed.

“Those morning briefings are pretty long,” Fahim empathized.

“They are, but hey. Word in the office is, the Commissioner has been raving about your work. Your analysis last week secured us our next capital procurement.”

“Really? Do you think–”

“The NASAC conference this weekend?” Eric interrupted, “He mentioned offering you a seat that just opened up. Would you—”

“Yes!” His eyes widened, “I would love that.”

A few hours later the Commissioner approached Fahim at his cubicle.

“Fahim. How are you?” he asked kindly.

“Good morning, fantastic briefing today. How are you?” Fahim postured.

“Very well. I wanted to speak with you on your analysis, it really saved us a lot of time and money. How would you like to join the team this weekend for the NASAC conference? We think you’d be a great representative for the agency,” he asked.

“I would be honored to join the team,” Fahim spoke gleefully.

He smiled. “Very well, Fahim. We leave Thursday and will return Sunday evening.”

Upon entering the four day event into his calendar, he was flagged a potential conflict.

Take Ammu out to Old Westbury Gardens.

Fahim had forgotten he had planned to take his mother out to the Old Westbury Gardens on Saturday. He planned this a month ago after several attempts to visit her throughout the year that he bailed out on. His mother, Sayma, loved visiting the Old Westbury Gardens. The lavender hyacinths were one of the few things that would get her out of the house, as she would prefer to stay indoors and delegate herself to cooking and other errands.

During family dinners, Sayma would be the last to join everyone. Constantly circling the dinner table making sure everyone had a plate and a glass of water. While the cousins lingered at the door putting on their shoes, Sayma tugged at Fahim’s arm.

Do you want to stay a bit longer? Let’s have some chai and catch up.

Fahim nodded dutifully.

They sat together at the dining table, the home silent. Sayma set two cups of chai between them and finally settled down.

“I made it how you like it: two spoons of sugar. How are you doing, baba? I don’t hear from you much,” Sayma asked longingly.

“It’s going fine, Amma. I started this new analysis, I think it can really help the office and maybe get attention from my boss. It’s a spatial analysis identifying local hotspots identifying trends and driving procurements more efficiently. I’ve been working really hard on it and–”

“Local hot- huh? Driving- what? Are you still driving that motorbike? I told you this is not Bangladesh, I don’t like that,” Sayma commanded.

Fahim’s shoulders sank as he retreated to sipping his chai. Sayma noticed this, and decided to shift topics.

“Baba, what else are you doing outside of work? Have you met any nice girls yet? You’re twenty-eight now. I know some nice girls. Good education, knows how to cook. Rahma, Naima, Faiza–”

Fahim sucked his teeth and looked away, rejecting these notions.

“Amma– I need more money for all that. I think my boss is starting to see my work more now. Maybe I’ll get a raise or promotion in a year if I keep going.”

Sayma looked away lamentably, down at her cup. Fahim continued:

“Oh, Amma. You worry too much. I can make more money, have more work. Maybe that conference in Colorado I told you about. There’s clouds and trees everywhere. Analysts from all over the country go there.”

“Ok baba. Just, please make sure you visit more often,” Sayma conceded. “Don’t you do vacations at work?”

“Amma. We never went on vacation,” Fahim said bluntly.

“Of course we have, remember that cruise we took you on? The night sky, cold waters, snack bar–”

“That was the Staten Island Ferry. We had to pay for those snacks, and we were late because you had to clock out late that day,” Fahim cut in. “Besides, I do visit often– when I can.”

“Baba, it’s been months. One day you’re working late, another day you’re on call.”

“Ok Amma, let’s go visit the gardens. I know you love the purple flowers section.”

Fahim snapped out of his daydream as his Commissioner approached his desk again.

“Fahim. You’ll need this,” he said as he handed him a laminated, royal blue card embossed with gold lettering. It was encased in a lanyard you’d wear around your neck.

He exulted internally:

Wow- this is real. No longer am I a baby data analyst. No longer am I making weekly reports that no one reads. No more not having my name included in PowerPoints.

Fahim avoided texting his mother and decided to wait until the night before his flight, where it was too late to cancel the flight and just early enough that he hadn't left yet.

Amma, I was invited last minute for this work trip. I’m sorry I didn’t get to come by this weekend. Let’s go to the garden when I get back.

It’s okay baba. I will see you soon insh’allah.

He glanced at his message before entering his flight.

Fahim arrived at the conference the next day. It was a cloudy day in Denver as he stood outside the facility and marveled at its design. A modern, futuristic architecture– outfitted with large glass exteriors.

Inside he came across a long snack table with an entire table sectioned off for just coffee with all amenities. Sugar, sweeteners, dairy milk, oat milk, and even the red straws to stir them. It seemed everyone had a cup of coffee in their hand.

Fahim glanced at the brochure and saw a line up of programs. Boosting Productivity and Activity by Arnold Warner was starting in just a few minutes. Below the program was a descriptive text:

How to stand out among others and boost your productivity, one line of code at a time!

He watched on as Arnold began a monologue on building your early career in spatial analytics. Towards the end of his talk, he began taking questions from the audience. A woman asked:

“What advice do you have for a spatial analyst early in their career?”

Arnold spoke into the microphone:

“Keep working. Do those long hours, stay late if you have to. I can’t tell you how many family trips I’ve skipped and hangouts I’ve missed. Just do it.”

The audience applauded him. Another question:

What kind of coffee do you drink?

“Black. Skip the milk and sugar. It wakes me up for those rough mornings, and power through more analysis.”

The audience applauded again, this time mixed with laughter and commotion. Fahim looked down at his coffee, it wasn’t black at all. It was a sienna brown with a milky viscosity. Almost like the chai he would enjoy with his mother on those late nights they’d spend catching up.

On the second day, he exited a workshop and stood by himself by the glass exterior overlooking the lawn. The clouds and abundance of forests weren’t how he imagined they’d be. The cloudy skies made the streets hazy, and the forests were less inviting as he’d imagine them to be. He checked his phone and saw a message sent from his brother, Faizal, from a few hours ago:

Give me a call asap.

He thought he’d return the call until after the next workshop which was about to start in a few minutes.

Fahim sat through the next talk anxiously. He tossed his half-empty cup of coffee after the program- which he didn’t find as delicious anymore although he used the same two packets of sugar and dairy milk. He found a quiet area away from the noise as he returned Faizal’s call.

“Hello? Fahim?”

“Yes, Faizal. What’s up? I’m at a–”

“Where are you? Are you alone?” Faizal interrupted.

“Yes- what’s going on?” Fahim asked earnestly.

“Fahim. It’s mom. She– she had a stroke this morning.”

Fahim froze, his eyes widened. Faizal continued, this time his voiced cracked between words:

“She didn’t make it.” he paused to take a moment for himself. “Fahim- come home. I–I already started making calls. The mosque is going to help us arrange the burial. The service is tonight and the burial is tomorrow morning. Can you make it?”

“Faizal. I-I was supposed to–”

“Fahim. They’re calling back, I need to go. Please come back as soon as possible,” he said before abruptly hanging up.

Fahim wiped away a tear rolling down his face. He began looking up early flights. There was one flight left back to New York that night, when his Commissioner found him by himself. He wrapped his right arm over Fahim almost in a headlock.

“Fahim! Come, let’s go. I need to introduce you to my buddies from graduate school. They’ve done tons of work just up your alley. I already told them all about your analysis and how much it’s helped us.” Fahim winced at his breath, wreaking of coffee, and his neck being slightly strangled.

“Sir, I-” Fahim attempted to speak up with a tight knot in his throat.

“Nonsense,” his Commissioner interrupted. He signaled at several of his colleagues:

“Gentlemen! This is our new Associate Analyst I’ve been telling you about.”

Fahim awkwardly shook hands with several men in tailored suits all holding coffee cups in their hands. Fahim stiffly proceeded in their conversations.

Fahim managed to covertly escape to the bathroom where he returned to booking his flight. He hid in a stall where he looked at his phone to book the flight- which he quickly found out was too late. He smoldered in rage- impulsively punching the hollow steel walls of the restroom.

The next day, he was pulled in different directions from his coworkers and colleagues: one program after another. He finally managed to book a flight taking place that afternoon, knowing the burial had taken place that morning. Fahim left urgently.

Fahim arrived at the funeral later that evening. He quickly made his way to see his mother one last time - where he was met with a pile of soil covering her burial site. The soil was still fresh. He realized he missed the entire process- from washing her body to the burial.

“Faizal. What should I do? Did we pay the funeral director? Did the imam come and say his prayers? Did we–”

“Fahim,” he interrupted.

Fahim’s voice croaked and cracked between words:

“Are you sure she’s not here? Can we just–”

“Fahim. Go see Ammu,” he said firmly.

He stood out in a black suit in a sea of white panjabis. He slowly walked to his mother’s grave, and fell to his knees. The fresh dirt left a sandy stain on his black pants. He scooped some of the soil in his hands watching it spill between his fingers. A faint, repentant sob can be heard from him.

Faizal approaches his brother, rubbing his back, consoling him. Fahim finally turned his head to him:

“Where do they go?”

Faizal looked at him worried with furrowed brows.

“Where do they go, Faizal?” he continued. “Is this what people do, Faizal? Do they just work their whole lives- and die? Where do they go? Is this what we do? What- what comes next?”

The next day, Fahim went to his mother’s home. He picked up a netted colander she used to strain the grounded tea leaves and rinsed it, watching bits of them sink into the drain.

Fahim continued to survey her apartment when he came across an old, grainy photo of her. It was nestled away in between some old Bengali books in a small bookshelf. She adorned a beautiful, semi-sheer lavender sari stitched with tiny yellow daisies on the ends of the garment. The sun had cast a slight shadow over her face, but not enough to block her bright smile, raised cheekbones and expressive smile lines. Fahim thought to himself:

Young and free. Educated, a teacher of botany. None of which mattered when she came to the states, minimizing her to ten hour shifts as a line cook. Was she happier then? Did she have to work? Did she have a choice?

The following Monday, Fahim returned to work. He was well aware of the agency policy, including the grievance leave that he was eligible for. Ten paid days off for the death of immediate family members- but this wasn’t for him, he thought. He stopped clicking away on his keyboard as fast, and his usual, punctual responses to emails simmered down to delayed lapses of time. Eric approached him:

“Morning Fahim,” he said cautiously, “How’s it going?”

Fahim’s eyes widened and his posture straightened:

“Eric, morning. It’s going well, currently working on something new. I learned a lot from the conference this weekend. I feel good.”

Eric looked at him with a fixed gaze:

“So, no coffee today?”

Fahim shrugged his shoulders and swayed his head. Eric continued:

“Fahim… I spoke with your brother. He’s worried about you.”

Fahim’s shoulders relaxed, eyes lowered, and posture loosened. He looked away:

“About?”

“Fahim… I’m so sorry for your loss. I know you don’t want to talk about it in the office, but I-”

“No,” Fahim interrupted him, “As a matter of fact, I do not.”

“Do you know about the grievance leave? There’s ten paid days off, we really think you should–”

“Should what? Take time off?”

“You do great work. We’re worried about you, maybe take some time and-”

“Take some days off?” Fahim paused. “Listen, Eric. My mother worked her whole life- from a village in Bangladesh to a line shift job in The Bronx. Now I’m supposed to take a day off- to honor her?”

“Fahim, this work. They know this work isn’t going anywhere. Maybe your mother didn’t have that option, but you do. You should rest…your mom would want it.”

Fahim left the office early that day, returning home unsure how to spend this newfound time. Fahim sat down uncomfortably. His feet were sweaty and knees shifted- uneasy and anxious on how to spend this new time.

He decided to continue working, finding some shelves to dust. He came across an old notebook- embedded within other books. Inside was an old math exam from grade school when he was twelve. He recalled sharing it with his mother, who was too tired from her shift after school.

Amma, look, Amma. Mrs. Kimmel said I did the best in the whole class. I got a hundred on my math exam!

His mother would smile, with tired eyes:

Yes, Fahim. Good job. She’d recline in her chair and put her feet up.

Fahim would continue eagerly:

Amma, I memorized all my times tables for this. Rajit said I wouldn’t get higher than him, but I did. Ha!

His mother, in her tired state after work, would pat his head and quietly endorse her son:

Yes, baba. Good job.

Fahim sat back in the same chair his mother would recline on after work, holding the photo of her in the lavender sari. He thought about the many years since then, and the time in between that they missed spending together. On the school trips he would ask her to chaperone but was dismissed due to her day job. Or when he was robbed one night, and Fahim didn’t want to wake her so she wouldn’t wake up tired from work the next day. The quiet sacrifices they made in lieu of the time that fell between work shifts and labor. He sat quietly, fixating at the photo of his young mother. He grazed his finger across her face.

Happy, easy, relaxed.

The next day, Fahim didn’t show up for work. He arrived at Sayma’s grave with a flimsy chair and an insulated mug. He fixed the chair next to her grave and brought out two paper cups. His insulted mug was filled with his mother’s chai recipe, instead of the coffee he’d usually have every morning. He filled the two cups and sat next to her.

He pulled out a bouquet of lavender hyacinths and planted them on her grave.

Amma, I know you loved these.

He patted the soil down to plant them firmly.

The graveyard was silent, only filled by a few birds chirping and a breeze that lifted the grass below him and the rustling branches above him. Fahim sat next to her, unsure of how to fill this unfamiliar, unproductive time. He thought of the quiet evenings they’d spend together when she did make time. Whether it was a late evening after work, a Saturday morning having breakfast, or the few times they’d visit Old Westbury Gardens and see the hyacinths. He spoke softly:

Hi Amma, how are you? You asked me once what I am up to. Today, I made some chai the way you always did. Two teaspoons of sugar, and a swig of milk. The weather is nice today, a slight breeze and it’s sunny.

I wish we spent more time like this, Amma. We’re going to spend more, insh’allah.