Never-ending fields;
tall, lush green trees, spreading far like extended family.
Canvas-painted sunsets.
Has my village arrived yet?
– the new mother asks.
As school children, we would happily describe our places –
our towns, our cities, our villages – so lovingly.
But ask a mother, any mother:
Is your village still standing?
The narrow muddy lanes take turns and
“terms and conditions” have to be met sometimes.
I’ll hold the baby, can you please do the dishes?
Let’s meet somewhere in the middle of the village.
The muddy lanes have turned into concrete roads with stronger foundations
and so too have the doors.
A baby’s wailing pierces through the night air,
and by morning the uterus should go back to its original allocated position.
“You’re so strong!”
Sore eyes. Aching bones and heart.
Weakness upon weakness.
The discomfort of opinions echos in the village –
the air is polluted with unnecessary comments, unasked for advice
and yet…
“…by the time I was your age I had four.”
Who said the village was a competition ground?
The mystery of motherhood remains unraveled.
Unity levels have dipped and my hormone levels have dropped and yet it’s wild that every single person wants to know your address.
Isolation sits at the dining table.
And heaviness occupies her on the prayer mat.
Hurriedly recited prayers alongside an orchestra of hungry wails.
Adhkar mixed with formula, a burp, a nappy change (if the brain fog evaporates, that is).
Oh Allah, I beseech You for Your mercy to guide my mind, to settle my affairs, to order my disorder…
“Are you enjoying the newborn bubble?”
A bubble of hair loss, breathtakingly tight clothes,
and raging numbness.
Yes. I love my baby. But please can you come over for 10 minutes? I’ve not showered in days.
– the exhausted, overtired, overstimulated, (over-everything) mother begs.
But the village isn’t free anymore.
The village dies when the economy dies.
A nine to five and a 24-hour baby shift.
“Well, you chose to have kids?”
