longing

aspirations.

voice over the shoulder, breeze below the wrist, touch on the arm, face next to cheek.
dreams.

i smell the sea salt in the shaker, the sea salt in the turquoise of the sea. i am gulping breaths of seaweed and salt and the sky and the golden sun, on the green hill, rolling towards the sand. the scene is imprinted behind my eyelids, alternate universes tattooed in the crevices we don't see but can't unsee. spaces between the fingers, pink under the nails, the flesh inside the elbow, the yellow of the inner arm.

hiraeth.

i am in longing for somethingsomeone of which i know not. running in my sleep, weary when awake, question marks in my soul.

poetic torment always inspired by a want so powerful it becomes need, wrings your soul and leaves you wanting, like sex, like food, like air. gasp,
fill your lungs and your toes with salt.

salt in my tears, salt in my tea, salt on my tongue, salt of the sea.

he was sitting on the edge of the white headboard and as i leaned against it, my head nuzzled his left knee. his hand toyed with loose tendrils behind my right ear as i typed into my laptop, fresh white sunlight gently grazing through the window.

.....................

the scene shifts. we are walking on the pavement near the Mediterranean in Regatta. His hand is in the small of my back, guiding me down. I blink and I'm at the hospital corridor in LI. Mom's in the ICU. Blink and again by the sea.
His hand rubs my back, grabs my right arm preventing me from collapsing.
About my height, maybe an inch taller. messy black hair. round face with a pointed sharp jawline. goofy side smile usually but now, pursed lips.

......................

he shows me a black car. is it red? hazy, i can't recall. it's his car, his ex is selling. his eyes are red.
.....................

Blink
........................

A few months ago, he had waited by the dark stormy sea in his black leather jacket.
Grinning, smugly. Private joke he had made of me. All i knew was I had to get to him and I couldn't.
Hands in the pockets of  the jeans, swaying with the breeze. Alone by the edge of the rock. Smiling.

.......................

Why am I  having these dreams?

I cannot and will not let the anxiety get the better of me. I will not let the doubt gnaw at me.

we think we are mountains of strength, moving with self-assurance between office corridors, head held up high on the street, conviction with which our feet pound the gravel, urban warriors, war-painted, shoulders back and pride in every step.

hold your fingers up to the sun and see your fingertips glow pink. nailbeds orange. our very fibers so translucent, a burning star millions of light-years away can illuminate right through the fragile tissues that make up, you.

so fragile, and yet so self-assured.
does it not make you fearful?
have you no fear?

what makes up your mountain that makes you so?

mountain my heart,
rocks where my soul used to be

kedi ag nal rab ne banaya?

#thingstonotforget

AD: 

you've got a gift. don't lose it

in fact

don't lose that part of you

eeda:  

it gets buried down after days and days of shi*. its been a lot of those kinda days.

i dont even know where to start now

AD:

no matter how much shitty days and how many days, there's always the person in you inside crying to be free. i just dont want that person to be silenced like that. i do believe that bringing back that eeda will help a lot

eeda:

ur right. i thought it was easier to silence her entirely than to listen to anything she had to say.

it made things more manageable when you have one less voice to cater to.

AD: 

in my opinion, there are other voices you can silence instead of her voice. like the voice that tells you this is all neverending, or the one that tells you nothing's going to get better, or the one that stops you from traveling or shopping or doing other things you like

eeda:

ive honestly never thought about it like that

I'll kiss like it's a promise, look at you like an oath.

-TKG

Ode to my saas.

Ma.

i've been wanting to write this one for a while but everytime i felt close to, i would unravel in pieces of heart and mess of tears and the pain in knowing this was real.

so here's to you Mom. here's to knowing you for 5 and a half very short years. i will miss everything about you. i will regret everything about not having you here. i will regret that your grandchildren will never know the love, so much love, you had to give. i want to write every thing i remember about you, as clear as I can, so they never forget...so I never forget.

i'll miss the way, the very last time i hugged you and said 'kaha suna maaf?', as I always did, you looked at me pretend angry and scoffed. you couldn't be mad at me. and you gave me a long long hug.
you always had the best hugs. i wouuld bend at the knees to get to your shoulders, but you were warm, and soft, and you would draw me back in for a longer hug everytime i pulled away.
i will miss kissing your forehead at night before saying goodnight.
i will miss your small, size-6, feet. your anne klein peep toes with the platform heels in 3 shades. the only close heel shoe you ever wore. the fact you hated socks, and wouldn't let me touch your feet.
'humaray haan betiyan pair nahee chooti'
i will miss 'kidday juli aen?' my first 3 word punjabi sentence that would have you in fits of proud laughter whenevre i said it.
i will miss you griding your hand on your palm, saying 'chut chorsan', everytime you were mad at S forgetting to throw the garbage out. (and promptly forgetting evrything and hugging him the minute he walked in through the door)
i will miss you wanting challi (corn), your absolute favorite, and us driving around in Suffolk in winter looking for farms. butter and steamed, or red mirch and salt and pepper.
Chowkandar gosht (which you hated to peel), arvi (which gave you a rash), rajma (which you loved), ultay taway per roti and gol loyee wale parathay (your small beautiful white hands) lo mein (your absolute favourite) Chinese from Fatima's (beef on a stick), getting me hooked onto creme brulee (i will never be able to have again without thinking of you), wings (everytime, all the time, any kind), veggie pizza (must have broccoli), lal mirch flakes, lassi (only for days you couldn't get the food down), bubble tea (so many late nights looking for it..always the taro) coffee (only french vanilla), paan (meetha), chaat (papri and samosa, both..but not really a fan of gol guppe), falooda (tooso wala was best), kulfi (eik munh men eik hath men for later), mashed potatoes, butter pecan ice cream (protected it with your life, more pecan the better), bananas (the green kind only), kala namak, chai (doodh wali, 30 minutes ubal ke, two tea bags), tobbaco (''meri purya kahan rakh gayee ho''), no chicken, no tomatoes (''yeh larki har cheez mein timatar dalti hai''), and of course, 'kabhi koi sabzi phal kha leya karo'.

i will spend my life regretting i didn't do more when i could have, and lord knows i did the most i could have.

lilies. pink blossoming ones.
all kinds of fake flowers. small ones usually.
planting cacti in glass bowls and small planters (the multicolored one that sat on your windowsill)
pastel colors. lights blue. baby pink. cream and white.
no brown (dark brown, light brown, mustard, yes, even mustard) or dark colors. occasionally black.
linens and lawn. no georgette, maybe some chiffon. never band gala (collar neck), always dupatta. never trousers, and though she would joke about wearing jeans and being a modern saas, always shalwars.

people watching. for HOURS ('mujhay is banday se achi read nahee arahee hai') eye of the detective and literally, being a witness to a crime witnessed out from the kitchen window, a man being beaten by a baseball bat. watching out the small window that looked to the backroad and the car park and the garage, the first thing i used to look at as we pulled in, to see you waiting for us. intuitiveness. curiosity. courage. a poetic heart. verses for every moment. songs (noor jahan) lat uljhi your favourite, and kaghaz ki kishti. nusrat fateh ali's mai ni mai and saddan chiriyan da chamba (the original) always made you cry, and heave in pain (haey babula, itna pyar kiun kitta?) the pain your kids heave with now.
('tum hamesha aisa ganay kiun lagati ho mujhe eik doosri duniya men lejate hain')

late night walks on the boardwalk. holding my hand and resisting, but walking into the water with me, pretend angry as always while i laughed. S took a picture of us, holding hands and our shalwars/jeans, feet in water, summer night sky and the smile plastered on my face.

kahan kahan nahee yaad karungi apko Ma.

'paidi shakal' (my cat). Beds-toyee-vesant boulevard in New York (S and you had laughed for a long long time on that one). telling us stories. so many many stories. Tui ne kameez kha li. falling off a canoe in Minnesota. the dastarkhwan of your baday Taya. Pappu, your first love. your laugh.

you are not just a person. you were so much much more than that. there is so much we have lost, are are losing.

your duas. sitting with you by your jaanemaz as your prayed. on your bed with my head in your lap watching tv. taking you to doctor's appointments. having you check my blood sugar (which I hated. the needle prick), checking S's and saying 'haey bubby! itna meetha na khaya kar'. promptly having meetha yourself.

phone calls. late night phone calls to vent to you when in a fix. your consel. your duas. your green janemaaz. your namaz ka dupatta (one of which my prized possession now). your tasbeeh clicker, always on your right hand pinky.

gardening. your plants. raat ki rani and the rose bush. tulips that came every year. the persimmon tree two houses down (you loved them,both flower and fruit)

pride. your fierce pride for who you were, your family, and your kids. your overwhelming, enveloping love. even your ghussa was like you, contained, at worst, silence, at best, a quick loving word and you would melt.

firoza. your favourite stone. your many rings.  your hands. you loved it when i grew my nails, you held my hands and told me to keep it that way. you said Pappu liked girls hands to be well-kept, and nails to be painted. your insistence i wear chuddiyan (of course, gold) and your happiness when I did.

your hair. always a little unruly and tied into a small bun at the back of your head, put up by two or three black hair pins. we would take turns tucking the loose strands from your face behind your ears. filling in your eyebrows, doing your eyeshadow (pale golds), light pink lipstick.

selfies. more with me than with any of your kids. not knowing how to smile and looking grumpy in all your pictures. then not liking your pictures. the massomiyat on your face. doe eyes. hasmi kajal, or surma.

telling sheerin that i was like a daughter, and had been more than a daughter to you. how much you loved me. the hordes of people at your funeral, telling me how much i was loved, how much you complimented me, how lucky i was.
Mohs's 'there's a special place in heaven for you bhabhi, for everything you did for her'. No, there's a special place in heaven for her, for all she did for me.

i cannot imagine. absorb. understand. comprehend. in any way fully grasp, i will never see your face again. the thought if it pierces my heart, searing like an arrow. nothing had prepared us for this. no version of alternate reality in which we imagined for a slight second you wouldn't be here. every permutation of my reality held a vision of you, with us, reading to your children, making chai and hugging me goodnight, and good morning, like we did.

nothing prepared me for the abyss. for the void we are wallowing in.
i miss you so much, in between the slivers of my heart i hold you close. i cannot say a word lest he breaks. i cannot say it to anyone because saas? who cries for them. i do. everytime i think of you and my loss. i do. i cry and i pray for you and for Allah swt to give you the mercy and love you showed me when I was young and vulnerable.

Ameen.

So much more to say and not enough words to fully grasp what has happened.
Rest in peace Ma.
I miss you.

birdsong this heartstring
twing
ing aflutter, sometimes
joy, grief, despair
sometimes the sing
song, monotony of existence
humdrum beats
life courses through your veins
your eyes are red
alive

sticks and stones

i
live in fear the
tumultuous beating of a heart
wrapped in slivers of plastic
my
ribcage cages my breath cloaks
coal black fear choked
up in my throat i
cannot scream.
i cling onto life like
a slippery seal doused in oil this
world is like a big rock on the edge of madness
rock like my heart, rock where
my soul used to be.

ankhon men silay hue ho, udhero na

strawberries and salt

rosy pink some
days are like bleeding lips, some
days like
grains of salt lodged between
the toes, they (you) remind me of
sand, sea, spirit
run free. There is a
pinky hued edge to my memories
my hair still reeks of salty ocean my eyes
still drip with longing of
homelands,
never mine to claim.

I keep
strawberries and salt
close at hand, close
to my heart
the strawberries remind me of home
the salt reminds me of me

like a cavernous hall the mind, ensconced in silver, silent and hollow. thoughts ricochet off the walls like mercury pellets, the tinny impact twinging off the caverns, echoing in the blank silence.
there was a time where I, cross-legged on the floor would watch in amusement each thought, until eventually they dropped, rolling towards me in shame for the ruckus, the chaos, the echoes and echoes and echoes. I would cajole, comfort, hold it close and then release it, watching it dissipate into the white void.
Now I sit in muted horror as I see them grow, multiplying like a terrible cancer, ricocheting faster than I can take stock of each one, overwhelming, shrouding me in fear, rendering me incapable of action. Like gunshots in waves, crashing against each wall, topsy turvy the caverns tilts and spills and I go along with it.
Madness it feels like, and I am terrified to admit it to anyone. Sometimes on particularly troublesome days where the xanax is the only relief I get, I will ask myself, in that small corner, holding my knees to my chin, whisper it between the hollows so only the kneecaps bear witness.. 'could it be Madness? is this how one begins to lose their mind?'

fear is a terrible terrible thing.

-eeda

if words would come

they don't. So I sit shaking in silent fury barely able to contain the rage brewing inside me. Quivering at injustice, horror, fear, a blazing defiance, capped under the calm demeanor of professional corporate slave.

To write is to admit, and to admit means there's a problem that needs resolution. In my heart of hearts I know this is a problem, without resolve. I sit through the cursing and the taunts and the balled fists and the finger in my face with tight lipped anger to protect protect protect always protect this glass image of feigned domestic bliss. Inside everything is shattered, shards and shards and shards of glass raining.

Is it that I am loathe to admit it affects me so? weakness? Is it denial? when I am shamed amidst family, pushed to a wall and involuntarily locked in to a room, when my anger makes me charge and scratch and scramble for my freedom and ability to move as I please, is it this I am unable to comprehend and process and admit? Denial is far far far easier than facing the monster that lives within you and sleeps next to you, asks for forgiveness in drunken stupors and rages in wrath when you deny it the comfort of once again saying, 'it's ok'

it's not. good god, with every cell fiber and rational pulse in me, it's not. i'm not. so I shake in silent fury because everything is always ok on the outside. it has to be.

-f

I guess the hardest thing of all is to try and make sense of everything that has and is happening. To try and cut through the lies with the truth, the real with the intoxicated ramblings of the mind, the genuine with the nasha-driven lust

Nothing makes sense to me anymore