My grandmother had small hands and long, black thick hair. She wore a ribbon in her hair and bangles on her arms and once upon a time she was seemingly content, but worried. Always worried. Worry lay silently in her veins and sometimes shone in her eyes during the afternoon.
The sounds of the Fajr adhan pierce the stillness of the night. My grandmother’s bed is empty; she’s already seated on her veranda, her prayer mat carefully spread before her, lost in deep prayer and supplication.
আবার দেখা হবে (Ābāra dēkhā habē – We’ll see you again) My shashuri’s ma was set to leave for Bangladesh…
To look at the Kaaba with love…
“It’s so cute.” Cute? You may have thought I had seen a baby otter. In reality, I was many feet away from the Kaaba, seeing it for the first time as an adult.
Writing is what comes to mind when I think of expressing myself. It is the only art form that ever came easy. The flow of ideas strung together by only a page. It can mean whatever I want it to mean, making it the most impactful art form in my eyes.
Once upon a time, in a kingdom not so far away, there lived a little girl, like any other, quietly waiting for love to find her. People she trusted most told her that to be loved, she had to be desirable.
My son whimpers in the dark of the night and I stir awake as his soft sounds swell into cries. It’s my turn to comfort him. Is he teething?
I never knew that that softness, too, is a color of strength. Not a shade, not a hue, not a tint—but a true color palette in its own right. A warm yellow, in some moments; a deep, steady blue in others. The white of surrender, the red of warmth, the deep brown that builds a home.
Thoughtful reads. Writing prompts. New pieces.
It just might become your favorite email in your inbox, insha'Allah.
