Shades of Orange

Shades of orange ?


Uncle was a grocer by trade, living in the nearby village of
Al- Kubri. He had a small shop on a dusty, beaten pathway leading off
from the village centre.
I don't remember him very well, I was only a child when I last saw him
but I could still see his grocer's shop?crammed full of all kinds of
fruit and vegetables, row upon row of exotic fruits that seemed to
stretch all the way to the sky, exploding into a sea of reds, oranges,
greens and yellows that filled my vision, overwhelming my three-year
old senses. It was an incredible world of endless discovery. I loved
reaching up and feeling the fruit underneath my hand, exploring the
different textures and tasting the sweet blend of infusions; papaya,
orange, pineapple, mango?


We heard about the attack on his shop one quiet afternoon,
after we got home from Friday prayers. Um Hajia had come round and she
and Umma were speaking in hushed, urgent tones, oblivious to my
presence. I clung to my mother's chador, thumb in my mouth as I usually
did when I was anxious, listening to Um Hajia's account of
events.
There had been an air strike. The shop had gone, Uncle too. In my mind
I could see the riotous rows of fragrant colour overflow their
boundaries, spilling onto the ground beneath and spreading shades of
orange as the shop collapsed. The sea of colour that had once been so
prominent had vanished. Now only grey remained. Dirt and debris. Dust.
A dull, lifeless, colourless grey.


It made no sense. How could something so vibrant and alive be
so easily neutralised, so easily destroyed in a matter of
seconds?


Now Umma too had lost her colour. She too had become grey,
lifeless?She and Uncle had always been very close that she seemed
barely able to survive without him. I remember their endless telephone
conversations and the soft, warm sound of my mother's laugh that lit up
her face. It was hard to get her to smile now. She had become very
depressed and had even lost a lot of weight.


Some days, when I used to get back from school, she looked
so miserable that all I wanted to do was to make her laugh, make her
happy. I would caper round the room making funny faces and animal
noises. 'Look Umma, I'm a chicken. Cluck cluck.' Or 'Aruff ruff. Look
Umma, what animal am I now?' Most of the time these activities just
irritated her and she'd ask - "Don't you have any work you should be
getting on with?" Disappointed, I'd get angry and storm off, slamming
the door. I now realise I shouldn't have done that. I should have been
more understanding, more patient.
I wasn't just angry at her though.I was angry at Uncle for dying. I
was angry at the people who had done this and I was angry at the world
that had let it happen.