Raania Azam Khan Durrani
Spring 02
Sometimes when I feel that I am very far away from
home; I close my eyes and this is what I see.
My mother.
I see the colour of my mother’s clothes; red, orange
and yellow. She is wearing handloom cotton accompanied
by a large striped shawl. A Shawl that wraps around
her gracefully , and reflects off her glowing mocha
skin. Her slippers are made with twisted
ribbon..Fuschia, pewter and lemon. Her bright glass
bangles reflect the sun when she is hanging clothes
on the washing line. Even when there is a power
failiure on humid monsoon nights , I have noticed her
bangles shimmer in the moonlightas we sit out on the
porch. Her brown kajal enhances her hazel eyes, and
her lips are stained red when she eats paan with
catechu.
The street.
I see the colours of the roses and marigold at the
florist on every street corner. There are plastic
buckets that hold hundreds of long stem roses of every
colour. There are festoons of colourful wedding
garlands that sway every time a breeze passes through
them .There are gawdy, flourescent paintings on cinema
billboards and trucks. I see the Afghan man who sells
fresh fruits and vegetables under a small shed. The
colour of the mango is complimented by the
pomegranates and grapes. Then I see the snake charmer
walking by; he is wearing bright plastic beads on his
neck. Following him is a man who is selling chicks,
whose soft baby fur is dyed pink and yellow, to
attract children. There is a covered market nearby,
and there I see a man selling spices. There are mounds
of spices of all kinds. The yellow turmeric , red
chilli powder, ivory sea salt, saffron...the powder
like spices are like miniature mountains of colour.
My grandmother’s garden.
Amidst the grove of cocunut trees , there are small
bushes of hibiscus and bougainvilleas. The Hibiscus
are cherry red and fushcia, with yellow stamens. These
grand and exotic flowers are like wine cups. I see my
grandmother , in her blue sari. She is instructing the
gardener to clear out the weeds, and plant marigold
seeds.
My father.
His hands are like soft clay, that has recieved a
perfect molding.He has long fingers, with nails like
the silver cresent on the third day of the new moon.
He is cooking fish on a Sunday afternoon. Beads of
perspiration shine like dew drops on his nearly bald
head. He is tall and broad , with an overpowering
presence and personality that compliments his
physique. He fills the room like warm sunligght on a
December afternoon. Singing joyfully , he is stirring
with one hand, while the other hand strokes the hair
of a little girl who is standing on her toes, trying
to peak into the steaming pot.
The soil
After the monsoon rain, the rusty dust become red
moist and fragrant clay. It is quite a contrast to
the silver sand of the beach , whose thirst is
quenched by the Arabian sea. I see myself walking
along the sea, the silvery mush sticks between my
toes. For days my skin will shimmer with this diamond
dust,and no water or soap will remove it.
The Sea
The monsoon has taken over the ocean, like the demon
in the heart of an evil soul. The fisherman’s green
wooden boat is being played by the waves , like the
fishing net that plays the fish. That demon leaves as
the winter arrives. I see myslef sitting in that same
boat at night in the silent dark ocean.The air is
crisp yet damp with the salty smell of the sea. My
family and I are fishing for crabs and lobsters ,
which we will cook on the boat. I see a Rothko
painting in the orange spices and the pink flesh of
the lobster .
The Shrine
A man with a green parrot is sitting under a tree ,
and is reading my palm. I am looking up to the shrine
whose one hundred stairs are the same colour as the
parrot’s feathers. Bright rags and ribbons are tied
tightly to the trees nearby,the knots as strong as the
pilgrim’s faith. The courtyard is flooded with fakirs
and disciples , who are hungrily eating rice from blue
plastic bags. The rosary beads in the fakir’s neck are
jingling as he solemnly walks towards me. He then
raises his right hand in a gesture of blessing, while
his head moves vigourously from left to right; he
praises Allah. Behind him there are pilgrims dancing
to the beat of drums. Musicians dressed in bright
yellow garb stand in the sunlight all day long keeping
the beat alive. Suddenly, I see a white pigeon
flutter onto my lap. For it too, is looking for the
refuge that hundreds of lost souls find at the shrine.
An evening in the ‘diamond market’
It is dusk and I am walking trough a narrow street
that is lined on both sides with old colonial
building. Just like every other evening , the same
gorgeous women are relaxing in the intricately
constructed balconies , waiting for rich suitors who
will come to buy their love later tonight. It is
almost as if the architecture is competing with the
beauty of these women. I see small shops on the street
selling musical instruments , and ghungroos. I see
myself climbing a narrow staircase that leads to the
roof of one of these buildings. The evening sky as I
see from the roof is the same colour as the pink stone
of the Moghul Era Mosques. I see the horizon where the
earth meets the sky, I see the Mosque that towers over
the small buildings. Hundreds of coloured kites are
swaying above the city. The pink sky then gently gives
in to nightfall , as the woman below gives in to the
street .
