Banu Mushtaq in Paris Review:
There’s no end to the woes that mothers face come summer vacation. All the children are at home. When they’re not in front of the TV, they’re either climbing the guava tree in the front yard or perched on the compound wall. What if one of them falls and breaks an arm or a leg? Then there’s the crying, the laughter, the punishments they inflict on one another based on some arcane system of justice … This was why Razia’s headaches worsened when the summer holidays started. The nerves in her temples throbbed, her hot head felt like it would burst, and it seemed as if the veins at the back of her neck might snap at any moment. One after the other the children rushed in with their complaints, crying and screaming … and then there were their games … abbabbaa … battles with swords and machine guns, bomb attacks … !
Enough is enough, she thought, and lay on the divan cot in the hall with a piece of cloth wound tightly around her head. She couldn’t bear the noise. The TV was on, though at a low volume. She had warned the children sternly, and was just beginning to hope that she could finally relax and put her feet up when one of them wailed, “Doddammaaa … Doddamma, she’s pinching me!” Fuming, Razia jumped to her feet, silently cursing them.
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