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.