Play Dough
"And brown for my hair," muttered Mustafa to himself. He was engaged in his favorite pastime surrounded by a splendid array of multi-colored play dough. His father had just bought him yet another bucket of the toy he loved best. As he finished his masterpiece, which happened to be a miniature model of himself, he placed it between two dolls, each of which represented one of his parents. The dough family reflected an odd mixture of the finesse of an artist and the innocence of a child. The serenity of this scenario broke with the sound of shattering glass. This sound perfectly represented Mustafa's shattered dream of a happy family.
Seven-year old Mustafa was the sole product of a broken marriage. A relationship that began with unconditional love, over the years had turned into bitter hatred. During the last few years of routine quarrels and noisy fights, they literally ignored the presence of their only child. Mr. Rahman attempted in vain to keep his son busy with play-dough, as little Mustafa was more than just aware of his family's volatility. The verbal war came to an end last year, when the couple finally parted ways.
Mustafa's first day at his new school came fairly early. After the pupils assembled in the classroom the teacher began an introductory session with the children. "What does your father do?" was the first question young Mustafa was asked on the first day of his school. In reply to this, Mustafa said in a stony voice, "I don't have a father." The teacher eyed him with boredom as she came across tens of children everyday who made up bits and pieces about their lives to make themselves seem more interesting. Nonetheless, she called up Aysha, Mustafa's mother, to report her son's behavior to her. That night, for the first time in eight years, Aysha slapped her son. "You are not to disclose personal information to outsiders," she snapped. Both mother and son cried themselves to sleep that night.
Being a divorcee in a socially backward country, Aysha was finding it difficult to find herself a stable, secure job. She often vented out her frustration and anger on Mustafa unknowingly. As Aysha became more and more noisy with frustration, her son became quieter still. Every time she began shouting, Mustafa slammed the door of his room shut and continued with his wondrous creations with his play dough.
Mustafa's obsession with play dough did not go unnoticed by those around him. He was often found tugging at red clay during class time, and sent outside the class as punishment. He was also bullied as a result of this: for instance, once he was forced by a gang of seniors to swallow dough. But none of this ever seemed to bother Mustafa much. In the midst of his mother's incessant anger, his loneliness and social torture, play dough became Mustafa's only medium of expressing himself.
A year had passed by the end of which Mustafa became completely isolated from everybody at school. He never responded to the admonitions of teachers or the taunts of bullies. At home, he did not talk to his mother much. Aysha noticed very little of this change. For all she saw, her son was merely becoming more disobedient. Hence, she just got stricter.
It took Aysha two years to finally notice Mustafa's unusually quiet nature. The perseverance led her to inspect her son's room one evening. She stepped on something sticky as she pushed open the door. It was dough. The sight of the room struck her with utter horror. Why hadn't she noticed before? Mustafa had neatly decorated each corner of his room with twisted models of red, blue and black clay. His dolls no longer reflected the innocence of a child, but appeared to be the creation of a contorted mind. Each clay monster was made with blood-curdling details. On Jamie's bed, Aysha found the latest piece he was making. The model of a little brown-haired boy with his hand slit. Suddenly, it occurred to Aysha that her son was nowhere to be seen…
She searched feverishly for Mustafa throughout the small flat. For a moment, she felt as if she was losing her senses. Finally, as she stumbled onto the rooftop, she found Mustafa leaning close to the railing and gazing calmly at the distant sky. She pulled him into a tight hug and sobbed. Mustafa's expressions betrayed no emotions.
"Mom, I've run out of play dough. Would you get me some more?" his voice was strangely distant and almost robotic.
Samia Alif Esha is a student of A2 Levels. Torn between her love for STEM and writing, she aspires to pursue the former as career and the latter as passion.
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