Writer
The past few days have been dark and cloudy. So to lift my spirits, I dress up and slip on my new heels.
I book a cab and decide to reach work early. The pleasant breeze on my face from the open windows of the cab makes me chirpier.
Feeling happy and with my head up towards the skies, I step out of the cab and to my horror notice that my heels are stuck deep in wet muck.
*A loud shrill scream*
The driver looks at me and says, “Yikes, that’s disgusting madam!”
Today, a grey and red spotted moth got trapped in a gap between the glass and the mesh section of my window frame.
I tried to help but there’s no way I can without breaking the glass or cutting open the mesh. I sit down and wonder where the moth must have entered from. Then, I notice a slight opening outside, near the upper edge of the window. I feel relieved because there’s hope for the moth to escape. All it needs to do now is find its way, go back to the opening, and fly away. But sadly, all it seems to do is walk farther away from the opening, or fly and hit itself against the glass pane, and fall down. Sigh!
While I watch this little moth try helplessly, I get reminded of the story of The King and the Spider. I sit by the window and narrate this story to the moth of how the spider never gives up and continues trying until it succeeds. Just to give the moth some company and a few words of inspiration. Slowly, the moth starts moving towards the center of the frame. It gets closer to the edge but again suddenly decides to fly straight towards the glass. Another fall! “Now, why would you do that? Stop flying and go towards the corner where you entered from.”, I say but the little one does not listen to me.
Thankfully, it gets up again and continues walking. It walks multiple times over the same path, starts flying, and falls down. Poor thing continues trying, sometimes it is super close to the opening but it mindlessly walks away or flies only to fall back down again. Now, I am not sure about the moth but I give up. I cannot watch the moth struggle to find a way out of its own trap.
Sometimes, we create these kind of traps for ourselves in our lives due to bad decisions or sometimes unfortunate circumstances make us feel trapped with no way out. What’s important is that the moth did not give up even when the end was near, it did not stop trying. I guess when we stop trying, we stop being alive. So, let’s hold on to dear life.
At the crack of dawn, far across the river, Ahiya can sense the microphone turning on in a mosque near her village. Within seconds the Azaan will start, the early morning call to prayer.
She lightly rubs her eyes and leaps out of bed. It’s Eid today!
Ahiya goes out of her bedroom cheerfully, half expecting to see her parents in the living area. She gives herself a low-spirited smile when she finds no one in the house. It was her decision to move to a new country, not theirs.
She has set up a cozy home for herself in a faraway Western land. All her life, she was told to educate herself and be successful. Success was to move to a first world country to fulfill your dreams. This was considered to be the ultimate achievement in life. People who get a job and move to the West were revered by families in her home town.
Ahiya grew up with the same dreams and hopes that some day, she will make herself and her family proud by chasing those dreams. Now, her dreams have come true. Then, why is she not happy? Nobody told her that life would never be the same. Nobody told her that the sense of belonging would be lost. Nobody told her how lonely she would feel and that she would be thousands of miles away from her family.
Ahiya shakes her head and dismisses away the thoughts. Today the distance will not come in her way of celebrating one of her most favorite festivals. Eid is the day on which loved ones come together to pray and embrace each other. It is the day of charity, of being grateful, and of forgiveness. Also of course, it is the day of feasting on exquisite, delicious food.
Enthusiastically, Ahiya starts prepping for the day while eating her morning oatmeal. She glides through the kitchen, gathering all the ingredients that she will need for today’s elaborate feast. She turns on the radio, listens to songs and starts chopping vegetables recalling the pleasant childhood memories.
There is always incessant chatter and sound of music in the air during Eid in her hometown. Kids run around the house, grandparents talk loudly on the phones wishing relatives, ma is always busy in the kitchen preparing multiple dishes, and baba does all the other house chores while also entertaining and taking care of the children. In the background, the tape recorder fills the air with music from Sabri Brothers and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
Ahiya’s fond memory of this day is peeling off mehendi from her palms. The first thing to do on every morning of Eid. A curiosity to find out how dark the color of the mehendi on her palm has turned out to be. Once all the mehendi flakes were off, she rubbed coconut oil on her palms and went up running to her amma and baba to show them her orange-colored palms. More than the color she enjoyed watching their faces light up with pride and joy.
Back in the kitchen, Ahiya hums along with the songs on the radio and marinates the chicken, roasts dry fruits in ghee for the dessert, and grinds spices in a mortal pestle. The rising aromas in the kitchen leave her grinning from ear to ear. Light on her feet, Ahiya is focused on getting all the flavours right.
After spending hours in the kitchen, Ahiya finally steps out feeling like a conqueror and rushes for a quick shower. She offers her Eid ki namaz, filled with gratitude and thanks the Lord for all His blessings.
It is time to set up the dining table with the lavish food, Chicken Dum Biryani, Kheema Kababs, Harira, Sheer Khurma, and Phirni. Ahiya dresses up in a traditional lehenga and kurti and sits down on the dining table to video call her parents.
“Eid Mubarak!” she says and beams happily upon seeing their loving, smiling faces. Excitedly she narrates the stories of her day and patiently listens to theirs. An hour long conversation and greetings leave Ahiya content.
Blissful.
At 5:00 AM, the warm yellow lights turn on every day in the back of the bakery.
Marie gets busy with all the work that lays ahead of her in the day. She prepares herself, dusts her hands with flour and begins to knead the dough. She kneads the dough long and gently though.
There is flour on her apron, hands, and strands of hair that fall often on her face. From the pantry to the kitchen, she runs around gathering ingredients.
In a large bowl, she sieves the dry ingredients into the flour. In another bowl, she whisks the wet ingredients. She works with the intensity of a controlled hurricane.
Now and then, she checks on her pastry and bread dough. Kneading them long and gently though.
She works on the bread on one side while simultaneously working on a fluffy chocolate mousse.
She whisks warm whipping cream with cacao powder in a bowl. In another, she mixes milk, sugar, and cornflour. Folding in the batter smoothly until it all comes together.
She pours this mixture into a saucepan and turns on the flame. She adds chunks of dark chocolate into the concoction and starts stirring till it turns into a mini brown whirlpool in the pan.
She stirs and stirs until it becomes delectably dark and gooey. She pours this into a baking tray for cooling. She drizzles some cocoa powder on the chocolate mousse just before sliding the tray into the refrigerator.
She dusts her apron briefly and goes back to kneading a new dough again.
Like this, Marie passionately bakes away every single day. Tirelessly, making wonderful pastries in her French patisserie.
Photo by Davide Baraldi on Pexels.com
An old villa facing the ocean on a summer beach stands still.
Three steps take you into the house through a blue colored two-way door, a string of bells hang above it lightly tingling with the ocean breeze.
A white intricate design of rangoli greets you at the doorstep, you step in and walk on the red floored tiles and enter an authentic South Indian home.
In the open hall area hangs an oonjal wooden swing with iron-link chains anchored to the ceiling. The oonjal is decorated with two maroon bolster pillows on the sides.
The swing directly faces the entrance door, when left open, the door acts as a window to the ocean galore.
Tall pillars standing impressively in the middle of the house holding its weight.
The aroma of ghee from kitchen, freshly prepared vadas, and filter coffee drags you further in. Steamed rice cakes continue to cook in the pressure cooker with the whistle going on and off.
Just by the kitchen is an open area with an open ceiling and right in the center of it is a tulsi plant.
Dressed in a sari with a damp towel wrapped around her wet hair, she waters the tulsi plant and does puja.
Two little girls cheerfully run in the open area holding up their orange-colored lehengas and dropping a few buds of mogra flowers from their hair onto the ground while playing.
There is lively banter and cheerfulness in the air. Grandma talks incessantly with the maid while the maid washes clothes just around the corner of the house on a stone slab.
A stairway leads you to several more rooms, a young fifteen-year old girl walks on the corridor holding a book in her hand and reciting poems in her sing-song voice.
Just when we are about to enter one of the rooms, I wake up with a startle to the sounds of loud impatient honking from vehicles across the street. I look out the window and see streets bustling with people and cars, surrounded by tall blocks of boring concrete buildings. I let out a loud sigh thinking of my heartwarming South Indian dream and get back to living the usual fast-paced city life.
I lie numb on the chair.
Eyes towards the window on the ceiling wondering, “Who put a window up there?”
Also, being thankful for the wonderful idea.
The clouds were moving unusually fast today.
The weather forecast mentioned that it was going to get windy in the afternoon, and it did.
The dentist and the nurse moved their hands meticulously inside my mouth. I had just one job to do..
I had to lie still with my mouth wide open.
I lay there without flinching, trusting them with their tools inside my mouth.
A swab of cotton goes in, a piercing needle, and a voice above me says, “I am sorry, I know that hurt. Are you okay?”
She must have seen my fingers digging into my thighs. I nod with my mouth wide open and try to relax my hands.
There was an on-going battle inside my mouth while my entire body lay still.
Soon, the drilling and vibrations began.
The dust from the enamel of my tooth blew into the air and onto my face. The nurse wiped my face with a tissue.
A dim light constantly above my head, I lie on the seat with the shades on.
I hear sounds of a girl crying in pain and wonder what treatment she must be going through? I watch nurses walk in and walk out from the corner of my eye.
A faint sound of music in the air from the radio, the songs which played I no longer remember.
A cute guy wearing glasses and headphones sat at the reception area playing games on the Switch, waiting for his wife.
I try to focus on all the things around me so I could take my mind off from the things happening inside my mouth.
A mould of clay goes in, a spray of water, some suction and I feel a bitter tingling sensation on my tongue.
The process repeats and goes on for hours.
Now and then, I hear the dentist say,
“You are a trooper honey.
You are doing good.”
I guess I’m winning the war.
Then again,
There is nothing much for me to do.
As the battle continues,
I lie numb with my mouth open
Looking up at the sky through the window.
PS: The cute guy, my husband *_*
A distant rumbling thunder.
There it comes,
Pitter-pattering rain and with it rises the fresh earthy scent of mud in the air.
Avni goes running out of her mud and straw hut with the pullu of her sari over her head, its tip clenched tightly between her teeth to prevent the pallu from falling.
She hurriedly grabs the washed clothes hanging on the fenced railing and runs back inside the hut.
After a while, white smoke rises from her hut.
Every time it rains, Avni brews tea.
She sits quietly and watches the foamy brown liquid come to a rapid boil.
After a minute, she removes the chai from the fire, pours it over a strainer and into two large mud cups.
She covers the cups with a lid, goes out running again and enters the hut opposite to hers.
Eighty-year old Ajjamma lives here and Avni is very fond of her.
The view from the other side of Ajjamma’s hut is beautiful. It overlooks a large pond with fields of corn surrounding it.
Every time it rains, Avni and Ajjamma sit by the doorstep of the hut in silence and drink chai.
They watch raindrops splashing and creating bubbles of air in the pond, they watch the field of crops sway gently with the wind and they like the mist softly touching their skin.
This is happiness to them, in each other’s company and their hot cup of tea.
At the cafe, we both reached out at once towards the cup of coffee placed at the counter. Our hands stopped midway, she turned and looked at me.
Our eyes locked for.. one second, two seconds, three seconds..
She quickly blinked and looked away.
I apologized and said, “Please, go ahead.”
She hesitated while reaching for the coffee.
So I said, “It’s fine, I am in no hurry.”
She lifted the cup, turned towards me again, looked into my eyes and gave me a smile.
I felt my heart stop.
She said, thank you and walked away.
I picked a book from the library and excitedly ran all the way home.
I locked myself in the tiny closet and sat down on the floor.
Eagerly, I opened the book and the words were waiting for me.
Looking up at me curiously.
Two little strangers would embark on a new journey.
Slowly and patiently from one word to another I rolled.
The words started revealing a story like I hadn’t read before.
This time it took me into a forest dense and green.
I escaped from the reality and lost myself in this picture serene.
I was a Merman and a white-winged divine horse accompanied me.
A heaviness in the air,
An adventure was on its way.
A mystery to reveal.
I got absorbed in it so fast that I had forgotten to eat.
My mind raced..
Word by word, page by page.
I travelled in my mystical world
while being seated in my tiny unkempt home.
And just like this, everyday
I traverse into my world of fantasy
Away from the pain, fear, anger, brutality and poverty.
I go lands away just by coursing through the page
and I escape my reality.
Like every other day Mira was stared at again while walking on the streets.
Why?
Mira was not dressed provocatively or doing anything inappropriate. She was only walking, like the rest of the men. The only difference is men never get stared at. Nobody cares what a man wears but women on the streets, in the buses, in the malls, in restaurants, in the supermarkets are often gawked at.
Mira thanks her lucky stars on days when people do not notice her in certain places. Women get used to the ogling, it is normal for them. Men stare lecherously, follow women, whistle at them, pass comments, wink, brush against women, and then there are worse things that they do but claim that women are treated equally!
Today, Mira saw a girl crossing a bustling street at an intersection. A traffic police on the other side of the road was staring at the girl all along. As soon as she crossed the road he came extremely close to the girl and touched her waist inappropriately. The girl did not stop for a second to react, she continued walking with the same pace, fast with her head down. Mira was shocked to see this happen to the girl. She stood there staring at the traffic police who pretended like he had done nothing wrong a second ago!
This is the state of our country. Why do men commit such shameful acts? Is it because they are uneducated? Who do women trust, how many complains to lodge? Punishment for crimes of acid attacks, rape, molestation, domestic violence, and eve teasing should be made severe. Only when there is fear of consequences will men think twice before committing such crimes.
The population of India is in millions, expecting an immediate change is silly but women will continue fighting and writing about safety until we know we are safe in our own country. The daily struggle will continue with a hope that men will change and stop making women uncomfortable.
Nuraine Sadaf 