a persona poem | Nisha from The Night Diary
Prices to Pay narrated by yours truly
One sweet potato, one pepper, two tomatoes, chapatis, rice
All disappeared into the bag Papa packed, quickly and quietly,
The faint light of the moon reflected off of the tears glimmering
On his strong, proud face, tears of anger, of sadness, of exhaustion
Betraying Papa for a split second before he made those disappear too.
Cricket games, flower necklaces, samosas, gold bangles, tiny coins
I miss the distractions hiding us from the world beyond the reach
Of the smoke, the laughter, and the chatter of family and friends.
Bright colors woven into clothes, the pink and gold of my salwar kameez,
Tease my memory of a time before the world turned black and white.
No, No, No, I hear Dadi moan, each syllable piercing straight through
The thin walls of Rashid Uncle’s house as if they were as fragile as
The vocal cords that betrayed me, figuring out how to release my words
The one time it would have been better for us all if I had only kept quiet
Dadi, forgive me, I know you are hurting, I’m sorry, I just wanted a friend.
Dadi, you once said “Drums sound better at a distance” and we laughed
Your words fading as Amil and I headed out to the sugarcane fields
Spinning wild fantasies about what it must be like as a grown up
Unrestrained by the responsibilities of school, Amil going on and on
About becoming a doctor like Papa; we spoke secrets to life into the wind
To think that not long ago I would have welcomed any taste to pass
My lips and greet my tongue, a sweet wake up call reminding my mouth
How to move, ready at any moment to receive the slightest drop of water
Yet here I stand, each salty tear that escapes down my face, burning regret,
A shame, we had healed just enough that our bodies could waste water on tears.
Salty, like that perfect ripe tomato sown with love, harvested with care
Seasoned with salt and chili pepper, how Kazi could create perfection
And serve it on a plate was a mystery, magic in the form of rice kheer
With our pooris, each bite demanding to be slowly savored, casting a spell
Only broken by the dreaded scrape of the spoon against an empty bowl.
Amil clasps my hand and I take a deep breath to try to put out the fire
In my belly, stinging with shame, only to flood my senses with the smell
Of sheesham wood from the shavings lovingly carved and shaped under
Rashid Uncle’s hands as he brings life to a doll half-carved, waiting, unfinished
A friend made just for me sacrificed by my own selfishness in befriending Hafa.
If I close my eyes, I can smell the cumin, garlic, gingerroot and turmeric
That Kazi, Amil, and I collect at the market for homemade samosas
A delicacy Kazi only rarely makes. To a foreigner, the dried spices would
Overwhelm the senses, but I savor these scents associated with home
And I wonder if the Muslims who get to stay will cherish such treasures
For the first time since we left home, I feel nothing, empty, a shell
Left behind by all of the fear, the anger, the sadness, the confusion
That has accompanied us on this journey thus far, just gone.
This is not the peace I was longing for.
Mama, I’m sorry.
Thanks,
Miss S.
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