There are gas cylinders exploding in vistas of prosperity and splendour. For a few weeks, I pray Ayathul Qurshi when I make tea in the morning. On some nights when I close my eyes I dream of rubble, broken tile, singed flesh. Imagine surviving a 2-year pandemic only to be killed while making tea in your home! I find myself telling people over and over and over again. Imagine! I have been thinking of indicators. The things we use to measure other things. Metrics. On three-wheelers you can theorize about the past months through the see-through plastic sheets that often demarcate the space between driver and rider. Some sheets are crinklecrumpled and grip the scaffolding with hope and dust-encrusted tape. Some sheets have the dried smears of soapy water and disinfectant past. The other day I was catching up with someone and they explained how when they make fish curry at home, they give the fish to their 2 children while both they and their partner have the gravy. They spoke about how they exploded in fury when they once came home after an unfulfilling, underpaid day of work to see that the children had cooked a week’s worth of chicken one night while trying a new Thai recipe. There’s a lock on the fridge now because the children are always eating, eating, eating and the house can’t contain their lost years, their appetites, their restless, glittering energy with nowhere to go. Turn left I tell the three-wheeler driver. We miss the turn because the plastic sheet muffles voice. Lately I've been obsessed with the afterlives of things once they've performed their function and keep wondering what happens to art exhibits, marketing paraphernalia, decor, dated banners, centrepieces, rubble from demolished buildings, posters, food once an event is done. At our first pandemic wedding, we lingered after the guests had gone, chatting and laughing and seeing people after years. As the ballroom emptied, the father of the bride began plucking flowers from the floral arrangements laid below glittering chandeliers. “Here. Take these,” he said, thrusting a bouquet of red red roses at me and darting away to assemble more bouquets from the leftover arrangements for leftover people. “I spent a lot of money on these. Take everything, take everything.” We left the wedding with a hug filled with flowers. Hydrangeas which look like sexy cauliflowers, roses, lilies, orchids. For a few days everything was beautiful. We felt rich. Grazing tables. When I think of the word grazing I think of cows. When I see meticulous grazing tables on my social media timeline, I can only think of cows solemnly swaying like sleepy pendulums, chewing, chewing, chewing. I read through material that is thick (synonyms for thick: profuse, pullulating, dumpy, exuberant, crammed, jammed) with artspeak x academicspeak and it takes me 3, 5, 7 tries to understand what is written and I panic, I panic wondering if I have lost my grip on language because language is what I have, language is what I have foolishly built my identity around, language is what pays the bills and feeds the children and if I don’t have that, then what do I have. I cannot understand what you are saying the PR executive says with a sigh in her voice over the phone. Language is leaving me. I want the social mobility of a plastic bag. I want the bravery of a sunrise. I want the bombastic confidence of a person who recycles the first three google hits of a topic and publishes unvetted op-eds in local media and then calls themselves a thought leader. Words that need to be relegated to the dustbin: thought leader. They freed a poet who shouldn’t have been in jail. Maybe they thought he was a thought leader. What does this indicate. More rejection. What does this indicate. I meet with a friend and half-way through a story I find out she isn’t vaccinated. I am angry. Angry I forgot to ask. Angry I have to ask, 2 years into a pandemic. Angry that she has gone through pain and pills and tests and cuts and doctors that have dismantled her beliefs. Umma’s face floats to my mind, unbidden. After the lockdown I had a haircut. Umma removed her last tooth. I bury my face into her baby’s head. Downy hair, dimpled knees, his tiny face rearranges itself into a smile so easily, so sweetly. Everything will be ok. Everything must be ok. CHOOSE PEOPLE WHO CHOOSE YOU a social media post reminds me in neon uppercase. Choose people who don’t treat you as an afterthought, who don’t make you self-edit, who don’t use your vulnerability for their next dinner anecdote, who don’t issue wispy invitations so half-heartedly, so carelessly that their words disintegrate before they reach the ground. There is a seafood vendor called Fresh Flesh on the food app. My WhatsApp groups are buying gold. I am losing friends. I have lost friends. I have lost them to other countries. I am losing them to other countries. Conversations revolve around NOCs and exit routes and agents and career changes and new dreams and new skins have blossomed within these friendships and I am listening, I am listening. The other morning mama turned to me and said You know that saying about money attracting more problems? I think it's propaganda by rich people to keep other people from wanting to become rich. I think she’s always been wise but we never noticed. I think she’s always been brave but we never noticed. During a lull in a conversation, all of us turn our attention to the table next to us. Her hair is slicked down in a low bun. That is a date dress. A date bag. He shandies her drink, misses her physical cues and looks at his phone frequently. Girl, run. You will always feel lonely in crowded rooms. Every January I think of Appa. I need to pray Yaseen. I go back to the letters he sent me. Letters probably dictated to his secretary. OG speech to text. I think of the way he drank his tea. I have never seen anyone drink tea that way. He believed unconditionally. It’s been years since I was in his hometown. I see it through Instagram stories of other people visiting. During the last lockdown we took out old photographs and there he was. There he was. I wonder what he will make of me, of the world today, of this letter. Thank you for your letter. I didn’t understand it but I enjoyed it. Happy to see you writing. May Allah bless you with all the Joy and Happiness of life. My Salams to all at home.
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I read this during a study break and wow... what a treat! It's so beautiful and captivating. Absolutely love how vibrant and immersive the writing is. Definitely worth having spent it to read this!
As someone who writes occasionally (I wouldn't call myself a writer), I keep asking myself the same question too: "Is language leaving me?" and it's something I relate to personally.
Thanks for sharing this!
Looking forward for more :)