The smell of rain. The feeling of a cold metal glass against my lips. That letter I wrote years ago. The sound of that song from that TV show.
The color of your eyes. The distinct smell of her dubatta. The taste of home. The cold air against my cheeks. The hand that let go.
The call of the jalebi vendor. The blur of flying dust specs. The familiar walk to school. The sun singeing my skin.
Looking back and finding him gone. Searching for Mama’s eyes. The braid I could not do. The crisp sound of the Jummah azan.
The are just some of the sensations that explode within me.
These are just some of the memories that define my life.
via Daily Prompt: Detonate
I am darn sure those flowers were pink, no matter how many times Google images brings up the images of dark red flowers when faced with my search “pomegranate flowers”. I remember the trees towering over me in my youth. I remember trying to climb them to get the fruit. I never succeeded.
My childhood was filled with many hot days and hours and hours of running after my siblings under the shade of our ever growing pomegranate trees. Those pomegranate trees are gone now. My grandfather got rid of them the day after my dad left for the US and we left to go live with our grandma. They required too much care that no one could provide them.
I do not know if they would have been able to survive had we left them there and I guess I never will. All I know is that part of the sweet emotion that runs through me when I hear the word “nostalgia” is the sweet yet tangy taste of the pomegranate seeds from our trees.
Nostalgia is trying to climb up those trees and reach the fruit hanging from the limbs and never being able to make it.
Nostalgia is catching the pomegranates as our father threw them to us from the top of the trees that we could never reach.
Nostalgia is racing with my siblings to see who could get the most pomegranates.
Nostalgia is bringing the pomegranates back to the kitchen, where our mother sat, criss-cross apple sauce style, and peeled away at the pomegranates because our fingers were not quite strong enough to peel the thick skin just yet.
Nostalgia is spinning under the trees that now bore pink flowers instead of the red fruit and trying to catch the petals that came down despite the defiance of the wind.
Nostalgia is elusive, just like the colors of our pomegranates.
She was strongest when she let herself be fragile because she allowed herself to believe she could put the pieces back together.
She looked at the world in the eyes and said “bring it on”.
Every single one of these daily prompts incites in me memories that I wish to forget. It is all so simple. Things happen. Time never stops. Life may not be perfect but it is beautiful. It demands to be lived. So simple.
Then why is it all so complicated?
via Daily Prompt: Complicated
My flew do windy
thoughts papers on
just like days.
fly jumbled to-be-found
everywhere in wind. forgotten
I weight thoughts
the paper my
Can up with …. thoughts
not keep these
She is beautiful. She is intelligent. She is ruthless. She is unstoppable.
She believes that she can do anything she has set her mind to. She isn’t wrong.
She accepts failure with grace and she takes success with pride.
She talks with her voice crisp and her head raised high.
She maintains her calm whenever making a point and she stands for everyone’s right to voice their opinions, even if they don’t match hers.
She believes in equality and the freedom of speech.
But because she is unstoppable, she believes everyone else can be too.
Because she can stand in front of the world and make her point, she believes everyone should be able to do.
She does not understand inability because she has never faced it.
She does not understand helplessness because she has never been there.
She does not understand how anyone could ever be stopped if they really really want something.
She will never understand the plight of the people who never even had the opportunity to start.
I was walking down the baby’s clothing aisle, minding my own business, when a bright romper caught my attention. The turquoise was bright against the dull colors and I could see the very carefully placed words that demanded my attention. The shirt said something like this: “Pick me up, darlin’… I [heart] older chicks”.
I didn’t quite know whether to chuckle or to raise my eyebrows. I knew that this shirt was supposed to be funny, and in a way, it was. Yet it made me uncomfortable, if not offended. There is such a fine line between funny and offensive and it is often times hard to tell which side to put a given instance on. When I shared my dilemma with a friend, explaining how I am unsure if I am over reacting or if this truly is a problem and a reflection of our human condition, I got a good natured text back “To what extent does kid’s clothing represent the human condition LOL?”
The answer is indeed “To a great extent.” The child who wears this shirt may not have a clue as to what it is saying, but the one who got the shirt for the child does. I am yet to come across a baby girl’s romper that says “Pick me up darling… I love older dudes”. Something tells me that that shirt wouldn’t be quite as popular. This shirt bothered me when I first saw it but I suppressed my annoyance with it, telling myself that it’s just a joke. But it is our acceptance of such jokes that gives the impression to our sons that it is okay to disrespect women. It is this reluctance to “overreact” that tells society that it is okay for our sons to grow up and address women by the word that originally referred to poultry.
Everything around us in some shape or form affects and reflects our thinking. There are so many subtle ways we shame women everywhere, from the “What were you wearing?” to the simple “man up”. Sexism, racism, colorism, and the countless other isms that people among us are subjected to: they are all sneaky. Don’t let them get places like your children’s wardrobes.