My dear

Am I really your darling 

After all these years

Despite the blackheads on my nose

And my dark, tanned skin

Do you really want me still

With a child and a messy house

With hair clogging the drain

Beads and blocks on the floor

Do you like to see me

Clothes familiar and worn

No longer bothering with earrings

Hair like an African jungle

You know, I like you still

Your back, large over the kitchen sink

So very familiar

Making breakfast

Book Reviews (3)

 1. The Girl He Used To Know by Tracey Garvis Graves

This story follows two people, Annika and Jonathan, and I guess I'm a sucker for love stories where two people feel like they really belong together, like they are their best selves with the other person, because I'm pretty sure I read this book straight through. The chapters fluctuate back and forth inconsistently but its easy reading. Love stories where two people get together, then separate, and then get together again as wiser and stronger adults are kind of compelling and cute, like a modern day fairy tale. The title is sort of misleading because at least half the book is written from the girl's point of view but whatever. Any book that has a character with social anxiety or some kind of medical problem is also really cathartic. 

In a word: sweethearts 

2. The Dreamers by Karen Thompson Walker

This book is about a very contagious sleeping sickness taking over a small American town and with the world in corona-mode right now, I think the timing of this book is great. The story also is interesting, as are the characters. It's a quick and very interesting read, and very relatable especially in the current climate. I like to think we're nearing the end of the book where the sickness mysteriously disappears on its own accord. I really liked the writing. It creates the right sort of tensiony atmosphere that fits well with this theme. And I love a touch of magic realism. 

In a word: contagious

3. The Farm by Joanne Ramos

This book is about a surrogacy program, though its actually about much more than that. It explores the financial imbalance in America, mainly between Philippinos and whites, and how a woman in certain circumstances makes decisions that determine, well, life. It was weird, I've never really thought about this topic, and it even ended with the questionable surrogacy program continuing, which I didn't expect. Is this a picture of the near future? Uncomfortable, but interesting.  

In a word: payment 

4. The Nickel Boys by Colson Whitehead

This book is based on boys reform schools in US from back in the day. I was expecting scandalous things, but instead the whole whipping and death as punishment just felt sad and heavy. It was eye opening I suppose. It had a surprising twist. And, its very well written. 

In a word: historic

5. The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

I did not know this was going to be a dystopian novel, as silly as that sounds. So I had to google what was happening. The writing is very pretty but the novel becomes so boring so often, I read most of the plot on Wikipedia and as much as I could of the actual book. The sex is not sexual and that's part of the idea but its so unfortunate, the total lack of scandalous things. This novel deals with questions about gender roles and identity that don't feel relevant in my life at all. What kind of world disregards love? Not my cup of tea.  

In a word: tedious

6. Women Talking by Miriam Toews

This book was incredible, and its even crazier that its based on something that actually happened. The women come across as incredible strong and witty and close. The discourse on religion and doing the right thing and our duty to God and to our husbands and our children, runs close to my heart. Not that I know anything about rape, but the reasoning of it, figuring out the right thing to do, I found it very interesting. There's a splash of love as well, and women who are tough as hell and yet tolerate abuse from their husbands is weird but real. This is just such an interesting read, and I wish it didn't end where it did, I want to know what happens next. The frame is also engaging. 

In a word: discussion

7. Normal People by Sally Rooney

I think I've written about this book already but I actually read it again, I was so into it. It's a love story, a couple comes together, breaks up, comes together again, and meantime various emotional growth takes place and their lives change and so on. The thing about this book is the dominant-submissive stuff, and it's deep, it's not simple, its not Fifty Shades. In a way, both the guy and the girl find redemption and peace and it's lovely. 

In a word: love

8. To Sleep in a Sea of Stars by Christopher Paolini

Here's a sci-fi fantasy book in a list of 'real life' books but this was an absorbing read, and it had way more drama than I expected. There wasn't a ton of sci-fi, there was so much human-ness to it, that it fits well in this list, despite aliens and outer space and unidentified foreign objects. There's great characters, and lots of adventure and even love, and its easy to follow. It's a long novel, but I love getting the full story, details and all.  

In a word: fun

9. You Should See Me in a Crown by Leah Johnson

This is a young adult novel, set in a high school, about prom. Its good, well written, easy reading. Lots of books have lesbians these days and this is one of them. And our main character sticks it to the man. 

In a word: high-school

10. Orange World and Other Stories by Karen Russell

This is an insane collection of short stories, each weirder than the last, and damn. Way to mess with the world. The writing also is excellent, and the settings are unique. This book is seriously worth reading. It's a little heavy, meaning it's not easy, but every story is something to talk about. Magic-realism-horror-comedy? Loved it. 

In a word: weird

11. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

The writing is vibrant, of course, since it is Maya Angelou. I'm glad the man is caught in the end. And wow Maya Angelou is brave. 

In a word: autobiography

It's time

Close your eyes and drift off to sleep now

Why are you so terrified

of how heavy your eyes are feeling

Why does your mouth tremble so

What are these tears running out of your eyes and across your nose

Do you think we will be separated

Do you know, somehow, the truth:

Your body will lie here, I will be cleaning in the other room,

and you will be with God.

Do not be so afraid

The angels will keep you company 

Strangers though they may be

God will not let them bother you

He will return you to me

So for a little while, sleep. 

I want to be surrounded by 

tall and silent trees

and covered by a star filled sky

just you, me and God above

Here in the sticky heat of the morning

it is the hour of prayer

I wear fresh clothes

I wash my face of my thoughts

I listen to

the quiet whirring of the fans

the birds of the city are awake

the day's first train roars past 

I think of you, and of the people I've known

of the lakes I've seen and the oceans

of the star speckled skies of my past

and the skies I'm sure are yet to come

 Dear daughter, 

I wrote this for you while you were sleeping, dreaming

I love you, when I pick you up and you stop crying,

and your heads rests once again lolling, eyes closed,

and I am poised for your cry,

but it doesn't come, not yet at least, and wow, the peace.

The kindness in my heart, that wasn't there while you were awake

it grows and I think, I want to do this for you,

I want to write for you. 

When you are awake and I try to type,

with your noises and your hands whacking away at me,

I feel so angry, so resentful, and not a bit loving,

quite the opposite in fact, and now, how desperate you were 

for a moment, afraid of the crow cawing close, though far away from our window,

you came to me arms raised and eyes closed and I felt 

infinitely protective, I felt okay,

I didn't at all hesitate. 

Ah but let me think, surely, there must be some things about you

that I like. For example, when you pretend play, when you play by yourself,

when you give your teddy bears one domino each, making sure once,

and then twice, that they all have one, when you roll around on your back,

with your belly full, doing little things, like trying to touch the plate with your feet,

knowing it makes me angry, how you smile when you do it,

and you see that I see, and I smile when I see your smile because 

this irritation, floating so close to the surface, is not a reward for your misbehavior.

And here I thought I was a bad mom, turns out 

you're a little bit bad yourself. 

 At night then, look me in my eyes

hold my face between your two hands

and tell me you love me, like you mean it

like its the only true truth.

I want to tell you my little secrets

the stories of my youth 

and my hopes for the future.

I want to share with you the tiny things

before they fizzle out in the glare

of sounds.

Night Night Baby

Come to me quietly 

gently, like the night

sudden dusk falling like snow

cool night air

and the windows of light

in the dark

Come to me then when

we are no longer hungry, nor thirsty

when we've done all our chores

and the toys are all played with

lying around the house

the books are left open 

on the pages we like

Come then and lie down

with your head here and your eyes closed

soft curls nestle in my neck

I will hold you until 

you fall asleep, I will hold you

until we both fall asleep. 

Can you hear me

through the noise

can you see me 

through the smog

can you feel me

through the mundane blank walls

the rooms as empty as empty houses

the lines sharp and ugly

cobwebbed

the insects that we've gotten used to 

the heat that seeps into skin

and sweats and sweats

I am sticky and icky with sweat 

the wind then, in the afternoon, is welcome

a welcome relief

it blows us away for a while

we are in heaven

the ocean outside our window

boats bobbing on the water

and the breeze and the quiet 

no people here in heaven

just my daughter and I

each on our own device

left to our own devices

time stops at 5pm 

when the wind blows in from the door

the curtain sways in the breeze

the cool air dries our sweat as it breaks

and I am lost in stories that are not my own

In my own story, there is nothing happening

isn't that a shame, it feels like it

as if at each moment I cannot bear to sit still

I cannot tolerate the existence of stillness

or comfort or time-pass, whatever you call it

and when my husband finally comes home in the evening

isn't it strange, the energy he brings

it is like I re-enter this world then,

as Wife. 

I listen and I complain

I make excuses and I boast of what I did

I ask to be loved

But his eyes are all for our daughter 

who has been in this world all along after all

she never left the bugs and the sweat 

she is overjoyed at her fathers face

squealing with delight

and they are a pair, I watch from the side

they are up to mischief all of their own

a pantomime I wouldn't tolerate even if I was a part of it

it's lovely. Take her, I say

take her. and when I am alone for a while in this house, I enter this world

neither wife nor mother

I clean up myself and the floors and the dishes and the bed

I do all this and I breathe deep breaths, wanting to finish the work

and not wanting the work to finish

I take deep breaths because I am about to cry

drowning in an insubstantial feeling

is it longing? I don't know. I cannot bear it 

I cannot stand another moment

is no one there?

can no one hear me

A regular Wednesday

It rains suddenly. The wind brings in the clouds; thousands of small drops fall so quietly, evenly, nicely, I have to watch. There is a slight, cool breeze. The worst of the monsoon is gone, I think. I'm sure not. It's my first monsoon season. 

The three days of rain, and the roads flooding, and people's cars shutting down was all new. Now I understand why they use manual cars here, not automatic. The rain. Months of nothing and then it rains, relentlessly, with so much perserverence. It's water that will be taken away again, at some time. It collects in puddles and makes our clothes dirty. It seeps into our shoes and worse, our socks. 

I don't know what adventure I was expecting, but I was expecting adventure. Not simple plain, rain and the occasional flooding (witnessed on the news, not first hand). There is no fun in that. It's just wind and rain. Soft and cool. Both clean and dirty. 

I have a new umbrella I've never used, opened only once when Fizzah had an accident on it and I had to wash it. Should I go out? Should I go out to use the umbrella? It seems foolish. It's just rain. Lots of it, sometimes, sure, but it's just water.

Chai time

Chai is the sweet something that runs down your throat and warms and cools you at the same time. It seeps into your blood and relaxes all the little nerves. It rushes up behind your eyes, like a gentle massage, eases all the headache away. It is the life force. It is the reason I wake up in the morning. It is what I wait for when my daughter falls asleep. The good heat of it, the aromatic smell of it, the rainy hug of it. It is what brings us together, and comforts us when we are apart. It is my best friend. It is my greastest secret: shared, universally.

Friendships of Youth

I've been watching Anne with an E (Anne of Green Gables) on Netflix and I want to be her. She's so brave. So outdoorsy, running around in fields, and just happy all the time doing her own thing. She's a good daughter to her adoptive parents, a solid friend, the brightest student, admired by the other brightest student who is also handsome. She's naturally open-minded and good-natured and modern. And she has her best friend. Of course I want to be her.

I miss the friendships I had during my school days. I miss how we were young, we loved each other so much. We would go places together. We were going through the same things: figuring out who we are, what we believed, what we were going to do. Our every step in the world was so new and fresh and invigorating. I remember making money for the first time, liking each other, being liked, being accepted, being rejected (well, not so much missing that part).

Did I slip away, or did they slip away? Everyone moved for their careers or their husbands. School no longer brought us together after we graduated. Getting together started becoming an effort. People started working full-time, only available on Sundays to hang out, if their Sundays weren't occupied by other demands already.

This is just the nature of things, perhaps. How can a person be 30 and have a toddler and a husband and still have the kinds of frienships that they had in their youth? Maybe I'm not opening myself up enough, not allowing anyone in. Moving to a different country doesn't help. But, like Anne, I should be brave. I should be optimistic about what each new day will bring. (I know what it will bring: more cleaning and cooking and the usual nonsense, more staying home afraid of the coronavirus. But no, there are still possibilities). There are possibilities. Fizzah thinks of new things to do. I can be brave, too. 

Creating Happiness

I have to get the house ready for guests. I haven't had guests in a year, so this makes me a bit anxious. We are to give and to receive though, right? That's life. I hate participation. I hated participation marks. But, it takes a village to raise a child, and it takes a village to celebrate her birthday. If not a village, at least a family. She deserves it.

I remember planning a Halloween party and it was so much fun. It took a team of us to do that, too. Mummy with the food help, H with picking up the ordered food and helping me decorate and clean. Papa with his opinions and feedback. Happy times.

I have a pretty similar team, still. Mummy, over the phone, telling me what I need to do and telling me to enjoy it. Funny, how I needed permission, but it's true that I needed it. I can and will enjoy this. This is fun. People getting together. All of our fondest memories are of fun get-togethers with people. These parties have to be orchestrated by someone. I am basically creating happiness, in lieu of Fizzah's birthday. Isn't that something. 

H, a different H, will help me decorate and clean. It's actually much less work for me this time than the Halloween party I'd thrown: there are way fewer guests, the guests have invited themselves, they're bringing their own food, and I don't have to get any RSVPs! There are also no costumes and no planned games.

My main job, that I'm assigning myself just now since it suddenly doesn't look like I have anything to do, is to make my house look less embarassing. I've got to dress her up. I'll give her a shower (get the scribbles off the wall), put her in a nice, unstained dress (roll out and vacuum the carpets) and put some make up on her (balloons & streamers).

Best part: There will be cake.

Torrential Rainfall

The wind is crazy. If I were to open my arms I'd fly away. My feathers would get soaked. The rain is slashing across all barriers. Clothes are held desperately by pincers. Pukkars. Clothespins! That's what they're called. Ah the water! The wind! My daughter outside talking a walk! She'll enjoy this.

I am splattered if I sit next to the window. I am worried about wasting my free time thinking about the rain. I feel obliged into being hyper productive in my laziness and funness. My chai is not coming to a boil fast enough. I have to rush on. Find the next thing to do. The next thing to write, to read, to watch. The madness of the weather keeping time with my breathing, rushing. 

Something meaningful keeps nagging me in the corners of my mind. Something waiting to be written about. Like the sudden silences within this storm, so quiet and loud and then gone. What is it? I feel the need to pray. 

Odd broom

Things in real life are weirder than I feel comfortable portraying in my book. (My imaginary book that I'm not writing). Take, for instance, my broom. My jaaru. It's a nasty green colour, and the entire thing is plastic. When you think of a broom, you think of a long handle, with the brush at the end that's probably about a foot long. Like an upside-down T. A jaaru, normally, is made of wooden sticks that end in soft grassiness, all tied together in a bunch. I never thought in my life I would have a green, plastic jaaru. It's sort of embarassing.

Worse, it's extremely damaged. For a long time I would store it by putting it in the corner standing up, the way you would a broomstick. This made the plastic "hairs" bend. Then Fizzah started playing with it by smashing it into things, which bent the hairs even more. Now, this jaaru has actual knots and curls in it. I've respectfully started storing it lying down, at least. But clumps of hair and debris remain stuck in its hairs and it still looks like a tangly abomination. This ain't no story-book jaaru. 

home

There is a strand of rick-rack lace, black, half an inch wide. The edges are frayed, opened by my daughter. Her father wraps it around her hand like a head band and says, take a photo. Arre wah! Says Fizzah, a phrase she's picked up. A bit hangs down the side of her head like the dangly bit of a graduation cap. She smiles her teethy smile, and shakes the thing off of her head.

It's all over in 30 seconds. Now its lying on the floor; I suppose I'll add it to her toys. Her pants are on the floor as well, the ones that I was trying to convince her to wear, and there's a romper that was drying, that she pulled off the stand, and a few mismatched socks, a couple of colour pencils, and a Dr. Suess book. 

It's quiet inside. Outside, there's the banging and drilling of construction, and far off honking sounds. Birds cooing, chirping and cawing and the azaan coming on for Asr. 

Book Reviews (2)

Daisy Jones & The Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid
I don't know anything about rock n' roll but I loved reading this quick little book. It's so honest. I could really imagine these people in my head, and the way the story is told, through conversation, switching points of view, getting all the different points of view, is brilliant. It's so funny at times. Loved it. The frame is so good I thought this was a real band!

In a word: dope

Breathing Lessons by Anne Tyler
I tried getting into this book a few times but I just couldn't. It's about an old, married couple going to a funeral. On their trip you start seeing the problems they're having in their marriage. It's such a sad beginning. I felt tired reading the first few pages. I'm not going to go back to this book.

In a word: death

Gingerbread by Helen Oyeyemi
This was a weird book. I was getting confused about what was happening while reading it, so I Googled it, and it turns out this is a course book! People study it. There were study notes. I had no idea. I read the summary on Google, and then went back to the book and started reading it from the middle (It's a slow book). I didn't get far. It's a fairytale. Fairytales are weird. More so when you're not expecting them and they're disguised as grown up books.

In a word: weird 

I won't share my chips

I don't like being a parent. I liked reading about parenting before I had a child. I read proper parenting books. Now I read blog entries on other moms having a hard time and feel less alone. Before I had Fizzah, I thought, of course I'll spend one on one quality time with my kid! Just 20 minutes every day? That's so easy! There are so many benefits! Why wouldn't I?

Well, hold on. She takes up so much of my time as it is, I just don't feel like giving her any more. She takes unplanned "quality time". She climbs all over me and likes to roll around on my body, pull my hair, bite me and laugh, literally, at my face. Have I birthed a bully? Admittedly, I kind of enjoy this rolling around. But I'd rather not spend (even more) time trying to teach her her ABC's and 123s and basic manners.

She finds all kinds of things to pass the time, without me. She goes into my cupboard and messes around with my things. She takes out her books that she can’t yet read and scrapes and rips the glossy covers off. She thinks everything is a sticker. She throws things out the window and we live on the 19th floor. There are people down there on the road. You see how this could be a problem.

I have to force myself to mother (see how similar mother is to smother?), and most days I can't bring myself to do it. It doesn’t come naturally. What comes naturally is the love/rage/hate/shame/guilt/LOL moods flickering throughout the day. What comes naturally is my raging against this prison of having to make (or just heat up) lunch and trying to get Fizzah to eat it. Trying to get her to eat it without spilling, or running all over the house. Trying to get her to agree to let me pick her up so that we can wash her hands after she’s done.

Trying, and often failing. Then yelling. Then letting it go because it’s not really worth all the screaming, is it. I feel terrible now for judging other mothers in my free, childless days. [Note: It is difficult to pick up a toddler against her will and force them to do anything. They can sense weakness. If your intention has the slightest, hair-like crack, if your eyes contain even a drop of mercy, you can be sure you’ve already lost. May as well give up in advance.]

Don't get me wrong, I love this little person. I love her to pieces. She randomly hugs me 20 times a day. She runs in towards me and throws her hands around my legs and sticks her head in. It feels amazing. It’s like she wants to go back into my womb. I pat her back and feel pretty damn good. Joke’s on you, kid. We’re long past the point of no return. 

She won’t let me change her diaper, she won’t go to the washroom, she won't wear pants, she won’t let me comb her hair, she won't, she won't, she won't, she won’t.

So excuse me, for eating my breakfast before feeding her, for giving her a piece of the chocolate while I finish off the bar, for eating chips and re-caffeinating myself at 11am while she naps. I may not be a good mom but I'm a grown up so I can do these things, thank you very much. I won't share my chips with my kid.

Book Reviews (1)

Golden Child by Claire Adam
I absolutely loved this book. It broke my heart. This novel is about twins, one bright, the other autistic (but no one in the novel knows this, they describe him as slightly retarded). It's set in Trinidad and I loved the bits of Indian-ness that come up as a result. This novel follows a family, relatives and so on, and builds up to a scary-difficult choice. Its rare to see money so openly in a story, I mean, the story hinges on money in a way that I haven't ever read in fiction, and its so real, the whole money issue. I can't recommend this book enough.

In a word: powerful


City of Girls by Elizabeth Gilbert
Really good, entertaining read. This novel isn't written like high art but I couldn't stop reading it. The frame is interesting, although sort of not that convincing because who would write such a long and detailed personal letter? But the story is great. This book is about a girl's life; she moves from a small town to New York and she's good at sewing. The story mainly concerns women and their lives so the title seems appropriate, and the book tries to be feminist so that's something.

In a word: fun


Foreign Affairs by Alison Lurie
I didn't like this book. Too much nonsense. It's all How does he/she think of me. Its all How do I want to portray myself. How am I defined, by county, by interests. Its so full of shit. The whole American-London thing is meh. I started it twice and left it because honestly, I couldn't give a damn. Given the title, I was expecting something a lot more exotic. This book is about two couples, American/London mixes and their stupid moaning and whining.

In a word: whiny


As Long As We Both Shall Live by JoAnn Chaney
Totally gripping. I couldn't stop reading this book, literally. It's a crime fiction novel about a couple. It starts off with Husbands, you can't get away with murdering your wife. heheh. And then it turns out the wife is insane, and she's in control, and they're both evil so you don't feel bad for anyone. Its crazy how this story unfolds and the good guy changes half-way. It has a nice feminist finishing with a line about gender and what we expect. I loved it. What a thrill, for a book with such a long and clunky title. To think that I could relate to characters that were crazy murderers...

In a word: thrilling


American Spy by Lauren Wilkinson
This was a really good book, and one of the good things about it was that it was interesting without being ridiculously addictive. It is about an FBI agent, sexism within the force, and a mission she goes on where she falls in love with the President of Burkina Faso, who she's supposed to kill. It's a bit about politics too. Brilliantly writen, it's framed as a letter to her kids in case she dies in pursuit of someone trying to kill her.

I love entering this agents mind, its so direct, like a cop, and a woman! Her life is about her finding her identity as an American even though she's black, from Trinidad, and works in the FBI which is full of sexism and racism. Super interesting. Sad that this stigma against female officers, especially officers of colour actually exists.

In a word: spy


The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields (1993)
This book is old but gold. It is very well-written. I only skipped some of it, while reading. It's long. The characters are very well portrayed, I especially liked the women, the variety of people across time and space, and how their lives unfold. Sometimes things just happen, and its somehow comforting to come across a book that shows this.

In a word: real


Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay
I could only read this book in bits and pieces. This book doesn't have the satisfaction of giving you answers but there are lots of heavy things to think about. Gay takes media seriously, while I don't. But media does have an affect, especially on children's perceptions, especially in this day and age when kids spend a lot of time with books and movies. So it felt good to be made a bit more aware of where feminism is at. And yes, I am a feminist, especially after reading this book. I'll lump myself in and call myself a bad feminist. Or worse, an okay feminist.

In a word: woke


I Feel Bad About My Neck by Nora Ephron
A book about the experiences of an old, rich Jewish playwright in New York. I couldn't relate, but it started off quite funny, and I somehow read the entire thing.

In a word: gross

Tomato

She crushes the tomato in her hand. Juice runs through her fingers, all the way down her elbow, dripping on the floor. The tomato seeds stick to her fingers and when she wipes her hand on her chest, they stick to her body. My baby girl. I hold her and kiss her and she smells just like a tomato.

Her face and hands are sticky and delicious. She grabs my glasses and insists on putting them back on my face herself. If I dare take them away from her, she'll break them. She twists them terribly, threatening me. I give her an angry look and she grins, which makes me smile. My lioness.

I keep looking at her, then at the movie, then back at her. She is so alive, so whole and curious and active and full of life, and not at all interested in the screen. She feeds me her tomato.   

Tube Lights

For better or for worse, we all die. That is a fact. We are usually remembered by a maximum of two generations after us. Unless we do something significant, write or create or somehow change the course of things in a memorable way, leaving something behind. 

Our peers remember us according to how we have affected them, negatively and positively. For a person who spends a lot of time alone, and a lot of time inside my head, this is bad news. 

I don't know how I come across to others, though I have my suspicions. Fizzah has no choice at this point except to tolerate me... and what choice do I have but to tolerate her? My husband says he's happy but is often walking on eggshells around me, afraid of my mercurial temper. What sort of happiness is that? But it must be real, because he is grounded in reality. He accepts things for what they are - a remarkable trait. A difficult trait. A confounding trait. Most people (I mean me) think often of how they want things to be. 

I want my white walls and shabby tube-light house to have soft yellow lights, easier on the eyes, much comfier to hide in. I want a comfortableness that doesn't exist in our house. A soft chair, a single sofa perhaps, to sink into. A sofa that doubles as an ottoman or a rocking chair or something equally terrific. And I want a library at home. I won't go on anymore about what I want. What a dull paragraph - full of neediness.