Between Acts

The sink is backed up. Again. That’s the life we live: a bowl of shaving cream and soap that drains slower than the water we pour into it. I think about yelling for my father, then stop myself. I already know what he’ll say, and the only thing worse than this snail‑paced drain is his slow, deep‑breath lecture.

“Patience, beta. You kids nowadays don’t know how to wait. It will go down. It always does.”

Then will come the usual flashbacks to the 1970s in Pakistan, followed by the list of things I have that he didn’t. And look — I get it. I have more than he did, and I am grateful. But Papa doesn’t understand that some things in life shouldn’t require patience. Some things you shouldn’t have to be grateful for. Sinks rank high on my list of those things.

I look at it again, willing the water to go down. It doesn’t. Why would something work? Life hasn’t really been going my way in general. I am 33, single, back to living at my parents’ house after being laid off from a high‑paying tech job that basically ate the last eleven years of my life only to spit me out like I was undercooked.

The world might have me in a chokehold, but I will not let this sink best me today. I pick up my phone and search for how‑to videos. Some of them require undoing the pipes, which I skip quickly. I know better than to pick a battle above my pay grade.

The next video only requires a hanger and removing the stopper — way more my speed. I run to my parents’ closet and come back with a wire hanger; grateful they use them instead of the black velvet ones I’d become accustomed to. I undo the hanger so it’s one long wire and go at the sink. Like, really go at it. I’m being so aggressive shoving the wire that water starts flying everywhere. How dare the water have the audacity to fight back. The cloudy, murky water is now my only archnemesis.

I keep stabbing the sink for another two minutes, with no return on investment. I yell out of frustration, louder than I intended, and slump down on the floor.

A couple of seconds later, I hear a gentle knock on the door.

“Zara, you okay?” my mom calls.

“Yes, Mama,” I respond, getting up to open the door.

“It’s just this stupid sink,” I say, feeling the wrinkles in my forehead crease. I have to stop doing that. I can’t even afford Botox now even if I wanted it, and dating is hard enough without the added lines.

My mom lingers at the door, a smile playing on her lips. She always looks at me like I’m the most entertaining person in the world. I constantly catch her doing that, just looking at me with that smile.

I used to hate it. I hated being her world. It felt suffocating. But now, after years of therapy and breathing exercises, I only feel slight resentment. A win is a win.

“Why are you doing this so early in the morning?” she asks, still glowing at me.

“Because I want to wash my face now and not wait an hour.”

“Okay,” she says, sitting down on the toilet. She does that a lot. She likes to just sit and witness me, no matter what I’m doing. I usually draw the line at her following me into the bathroom, but today I am depleted. Let the old woman sit there and watch me.

“So how are you going to fix it?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“I tried the hanger trick.”

"You used the hanger to pull out the stuff in it?”

Oh. Maybe I should have watched the whole video. That makes more sense than just pushing it up and down.

“Of course I did, Mama. I’m not an idiot.”

She nods, looking afraid to irk me further out of fear of being banished from the bathroom.

“So, what now?” I say, not willing to admit my oversight.

“You know, I dropped a ring down that sink twenty years ago,” she says, completely disregarding my question. It is a common occurrence in my house to have two parallel conversations. “It was the last piece of jewelry I had from my wedding. My mama made it for me, and it matched the one her mama made for her.”

I stare down at my phone, analyzing my next play.

“Yeah, we know. You sold off all your jewelry for the down payment on the house and this sink,” I say, sharper than I meant. I look up to see if she picked up on my tone. If she did, she doesn’t show it.

Mama sits on her porcelain throne in her green salwar kameez, looking at me wistfully.

“Yes, but we decided not to sell that ring. Your father said I should keep my favorite piece. So, I kept the ring,” she says.

Baking soda and boiling water. That was supposed to do the trick. Unless I decided to throw money I didn’t have at the problem and go down to Home Depot to buy a sink snake.

“That’s nice, Mama. I don’t think that ring is causing this block though.”

“No, of course not. That ring is long gone.” The sadness in her voice makes me stop.

“Do you miss your mom? Does the ring make you sad about her?”

“Of course I miss her, beta. But no, I am not sad about her. I will see her again one day.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you regret every decision you have ever made.”

She bursts into laughter, a rare occurrence for her.

“Of course I do not. I am very happy.”

“Liar. I hate how you and Papa do that. You pretend everything is amazing and we’re just the ungrateful kids who can’t see it. But I’m not a kid anymore, Mama. I’ve seen the world, and no one is happy. I know for sure you can’t be.”

She looks at me, perplexed.

“Who told you you and your sisters are ungrateful? You all are not ungrateful. None of my children are. You just do not know how to be an actress. That is why you think everyone is unhappy.”

Now it’s my turn to look confused.

She gets up and walks over to me, placing her hand over mine, which is gripping the white sink.

“I really am happy, even if you do not believe me, because me and your father are right where the hand of Allah has led us. Allah writes the stories; we act them out. We do not get to pick who we play or how the ending goes, but we enjoy just getting to be characters. When you stop seeing your life as the writer, you learn to enjoy the play.”

“Well, my play is a tragedy right now.”

“All good plays have tragedies, beta. Some are tragedies the whole time.”

“Thanks, Mama. That makes me feel better,” I say sarcastically.

“I did not mean that yours will be. That’s the point- you do not know. But do you really think your play is about fixing a sink or not having a husband or job right now? What a boring play that would be. My Allah would never make us watch such a bad show. Stop making your own life smaller than what He has planned for you.”

The sink gurgles as the last of the water goes down by itself.

“See, your father is right. You have to just let things be sometimes.”

She kisses my cheek and leaves the bathroom.

I look down at the drain, and for a second, I swear I see a glint of gold.