{"id":52946,"date":"2025-05-22T10:41:34","date_gmt":"2025-05-22T17:41:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/?p=52946"},"modified":"2025-05-22T11:35:34","modified_gmt":"2025-05-22T18:35:34","slug":"the-menagerie-naghma-husain","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/","title":{"rendered":"The Menagerie"},"content":{"rendered":"

It\u2019s been five years since I\u2019ve laid eyes on the house I grew up in, or on The Menagerie, which I always considered my second home. Father had Svetlana make my favorite dish, and he pours me a glass of wine I know he can no longer afford. He\u2019s trying to put me in a good mood before my visit to The Menagerie, and it worries me, what I might find there. I know what the papers have said over the past few years. But for now I choose to enjoy the meal and the wine, and I marvel at how good the kitchen looks, how well it was finally restored. You\u2019d never guess there was a fire here.<\/p>\n

Once we finish lunch, Father offers me his arm to walk over to The Menagerie. He looks like the one who needs an arm to hold on to \u2014 he shakes at each step \u2014 but I accept his arm, trying to remember a youthful Father escorting Princess Isabella from room to room of The Menagerie like he was royalty himself.<\/p>\n

As we walk up the winding driveway, I see the once perfectly tended grounds are now overgrown with weeds. A knot tightens in my chest. I don\u2019t want to see what this place has become.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s dark in the first exhibit room. The grime covering the windows blocks out the sunlight. Mother said our specimens\u2019 moods and health benefit from natural light, so each exhibit room was built with huge windows. An undertaking to keep clean, but they were always clean, under Mother\u2019s care. We approach the cage, the curtains draped across it. Guests are \u2014 well, were \u2014 invited to pull the rope to make the curtains part, and as people who rarely do anything for themselves, they enjoyed it.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease, have the honor,\u201d Father says, as I\u2019ve heard him say countless times. There\u2019s no joke to his voice; he\u2019s really acting like I\u2019m a guest. How long has it been since he\u2019s entertained a guest? Two, three years. Yet, Svetlana told me, each day he dresses in a suit and tie, what little hair he has left slicked back, a rose in his lapel. Looking at the rope I remember Princess Isabella\u2019s first visit, when I was around six years old. She was in her 30s but girlish in her demeanor, laughing with delight as she got to tug on the rope to reveal the first exhibit. As I grab hold of the rope I can feel the dust on my fingers; I can see it layered on the curtain fabric. I picture the residue it would leave on Isabella\u2019s white gloves.<\/p>\n

Father is beaming at me. To him I might as well still be that six-year-old he proudly showed off as part of the family business. We were specimens too, Mother would say, the three of us; we were part of the show. I tug at the rope, and the curtains part. I\u2019m relieved to find the first cage contains Lemarce, as it has for years.\u00a0 But my relief changes quickly. The cage is filthy, there\u2019s a huge spider web in one corner, and the rug is threadbare and stained in several places. Lemarce is sitting on the floor staring straight ahead, unbathed, his beard several inches long. He isn\u2019t wheeling himself around the room in his special chair. He used to impress guests with his dexterity; they would clap at his energy, his good humor, despite deformed hands and stumps for legs. Now, something in the air around him tells me he spends most of his time just sitting there.<\/p>\n

The chair hunches in the corner, dusty.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen is Marcia in next?\u201d I say, a hint to Father that Lemarce needs attention.<\/p>\n

\u201cI had to let her go. She was making too many demands, saying she needed more resources. You know,\u201d he says, as if Marcia was always unreasonable, when I know she wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t fire Albert, too?\u201d I\u2019m suddenly a bit panicked. Albert tends to the last exhibit. \u201cNo, rest assured. Albert still has his job.\u201d<\/p>\n

Relieved, I turn back to Lemarce, only to remember how little there is to be relieved about. I now see the stains on the rug are from Lemarce soiling it. Perhaps he had no choice because the slop pail was full, and the thought makes me cringe. I walk up to the glass. I hope if I catch Lemarce\u2019s eye he will recognize me and it will create some spark in him. When he doesn\u2019t look up, I squat down so our eyes are at the same level.\u00a0 He used to get excited when I\u2019d approach; he would wheel himself close to the glass and show me whatever new trinket Mother had found him. Now, the basket that held the toys is gone.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat happened to all of Lemarce\u2019s toys?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe didn\u2019t seem to want them anymore. He broke them, threw them at the walls.\u201d<\/p>\n

Lemarce won\u2019t look at me. There\u2019s no reason to close the curtains but I do anyway, thinking the view of the fabric is kinder than the giant dirty windows.<\/p>\n

In the corridor hangs the portraits of my grandparents, filmed over with dust. They created The Menagerie: they opened with a mere three specimens in simple wire cages, their son the tour guide, and a young go-getter their all-around helper. The go-getter was Mother. Together, my parents \u2014 mostly Mother \u2014 transformed the low-budget zoo into a world-class attraction accessible only to the .01 percent.\u00a0 \u201cPerhaps no other single attraction has ever had so many members of the elite clamoring for their turn,\u201d said my favorite-ever profile of us, in Vanity Fair<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\"Black<\/a>

Image via Unsplash<\/p><\/div>\n

The next specimen is Sagoraya. When I last saw her she was a child clutching a doll, wearing that specially-made frock. When I part the curtains they reveal her standing in the middle of the room. The change is startling, from the child I remember to an almost woman; but even more startling, she is naked. I\u2019m mortified, especially with Father a foot away.\u00a0 I\u2019m also unexpectedly repulsed by what should be a familiar sight: the head of Sagoraya\u2019s never-quite-formed twin poking out of her neck. Many of our guests enjoyed touching Sagoraya\u2019s appendage through a window in the cage. As a reward for her agreeability, Father would then dispense a biscuit to her through a lever. She would devour it, crumbs flying everywhere, and our guests enjoyed that too.\u00a0 Sagoraya looks right at us, then she puts her hands between her legs. I grab at the rope to pull the curtains closed, but not before I\u2019ve seen the look of recognition on her face. I wrap my arms around my chest, my skin crawling.<\/p>\n

I want to believe I\u2019m the only one who has seen this spectacle, but I know it probably isn\u2019t true. How proud I used to be of what my parents built. That they turned my grandparents\u2019 idea into a first-rate attraction. How ashamed I am now of what father has allowed it to become; how ashamed I am of him, an old man, his suit and grooming now making him look like a chauffeur. Worse yet is his manner, jaunty, ever the proud impresario, when the only audience he has left is me.<\/p>\n

When care of The Menagerie was first solely left to Father, I knew he couldn\u2019t run the place as Mother had, but I believed he would generally keep things on track. For a brief time after Mother\u2019s accident, I visited often; but my life took me in other directions. What did mother say to me, once, years before? A strange moment of candor; I can\u2019t recall another time that she spoke of Father\u2019s shortcomings. \u201cIf it had been up to him, he\u2019d have put the specimens in barn stalls and charged $5 admission.\u201d I share some of the blame. If I\u2019d agreed to come home and run The Menagerie with him, I could have tempered his worst instincts. It was so unexpected, mother\u2019s accident; I couldn\u2019t abandon the independence I\u2019d carved out for myself. I\u2019ll come back eventually, I told Father at the time.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s skip to the end,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course, whatever you prefer.\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/h1>\n

Mother lies in the same bed I remember.\u00a0 It appears a bit sunken in the middle although still in respectable shape, thankfully. The bed coverings, of fine white silk, look grayish now. Her upper half is uncovered and elevated for a clear view. They tell us she has almost no brain function, but I fear the worst, as impossible as it is \u2013 that she knows.<\/p>\n

As if he\u2019s heard my thoughts and wants to counter them, Father says, \u201cShe\u2019d be so proud, knowing how we\u2019ve kept going without her.\u201d<\/p>\n

So much equipment to keep her alive. It takes up most of the cage.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think it\u2019s time to take her home,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

He twitches. \u201cThis is what she would want.\u201d<\/p>\n

I can\u2019t disagree. The three of us were specimens ourselves, Mother always said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re just feeling sentimental,\u201d Father says. There\u2019s a hurt note in his voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cI could return.\u201d Words said before realizing I formed the thought.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, you could. Svetlana would love someone else to cook for. And if you could visit the specimens regularly, it would make a difference. They were always happy to see you.\u201d As he gets excited, his voice gets higher. \u201cWe could open to the general public \u2014 maybe that\u2019s the next phase. Your mother was always insistent that only the very best should experience The Menagerie, but she also understood adapting. Why couldn\u2019t we let more people in?\u201d<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t think he wants an answer, so I don\u2019t give him one.<\/p>\n

We never opened Mother\u2019s cage for guests to touch her. But there was one time. I\u2019d returned home to visit, my stay coinciding with a visit from Isabella. When Isabella pulled the curtains on Mother\u2019s cage, tears engulfed her eyes and she turned away. She dabbed at her face with the handkerchief Father immediately handed her, then turned back to look at Mother. A quick dart of a glance at first, as if the glance itself would sear her eyes. I couldn\u2019t blame her; Mother was now a mess of scar tissue in human shape.\u00a0 I thought we perhaps should move Isabella along for her own sake. Then she said, \u201cMay I get closer?\u201d<\/p>\n

Without hesitation Father typed in the code \u2014 Mother\u2019s cage locked like the rest, although for no reason\u00a0 \u2014 and the glass slid open. Isabella approached Mother slowly as if she were a feral animal. She took off a white glove and smoothed her bare hand over Mother\u2019s flesh. I could see the goosebumps form on her own, perfect skin. She made a strange noise like a coo. Then again.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think we should let Mother rest,\u201d I said absurdly. I grabbed Isabella\u2019s arm \u2014 the soft fleshy part where she would most feel my fingernails \u2014 and pulled her away.<\/p>\n

Outside the cage, Father reached for Isabella\u2019s hand. \u201cDanae hasn\u2019t gotten used to losing her mother.\u201d Father looked at me expectantly. I glared back at him. He said, \u201cApologize, Danae.\u201d<\/p>\n

I expected a scene and knew I deserved it, but Isabella said only, \u201cLet her be.\u201d Relieved, father quickly ushered her to the lobby where her people waited, as our guests\u2019 people always did. They were never allowed the privilege of going past the lobby. Of course, they never wanted it.<\/p>\n

Now Father says, \u201cI\u2019m so glad you\u2019ve had this idea. I knew you\u2019d return one day.\u201d<\/p>\n

I turn to look at him and know I\u2019m looking at him for the first time since I arrived, because every other second he\u2019s been playing a part. The pity I feel for him claws at me as much as looking at Mother\u2019s destroyed body does.<\/p>\n

I turn away, reach for the rope, and cover Mother up.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A short story.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15,"featured_media":52989,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[1,6],"tags":[254,922],"class_list":["post-52946","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","category-fiction","tag-fiction","tag-short-story"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Menagerie<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Menagerie\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"A short story.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"Humanities Washington\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2025-05-22T17:41:34+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2025-05-22T18:35:34+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/6.png\" \/><meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/2025-May-The-Menagerie-Spark-post-small.png\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"555\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"369\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/png\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"David Haldeman\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"David Haldeman\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"10 minutes\" \/>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"The Menagerie","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"The Menagerie","og_description":"A short story.","og_url":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/","og_site_name":"Humanities Washington","article_published_time":"2025-05-22T17:41:34+00:00","article_modified_time":"2025-05-22T18:35:34+00:00","og_image":[{"url":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/6.png","type":"","width":"","height":""},{"width":555,"height":369,"url":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/2025-May-The-Menagerie-Spark-post-small.png","type":"image\/png"}],"author":"David Haldeman","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"David Haldeman","Est. reading time":"10 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/","url":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/","name":"The Menagerie","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/2025-May-The-Menagerie-Spark-post-small.png","datePublished":"2025-05-22T17:41:34+00:00","dateModified":"2025-05-22T18:35:34+00:00","author":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/#\/schema\/person\/5a8539f120e3a714872071afa9c3622f"},"breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/2025-May-The-Menagerie-Spark-post-small.png","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/2025-May-The-Menagerie-Spark-post-small.png","width":555,"height":369},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/the-menagerie-naghma-husain\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"The Menagerie"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/#website","url":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/","name":"Humanities Washington","description":"","potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/#\/schema\/person\/5a8539f120e3a714872071afa9c3622f","name":"David Haldeman","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/f65ceac0f06194433be9aec85d240c72e3d37ecc03455cc2cafb7908f8d0ce91?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/f65ceac0f06194433be9aec85d240c72e3d37ecc03455cc2cafb7908f8d0ce91?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"David Haldeman"},"url":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/spark\/author\/dhaldeman\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52946","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=52946"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52946\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":52994,"href":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52946\/revisions\/52994"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/52989"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=52946"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=52946"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.humanities.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=52946"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}