Within the roots of this land, I imagine the tales of our grandmothers
sipping on saffron chai and laughing huskily at the jokes they share
beautiful visions brought to life of the juiciest mangoes growing in mama’s backyard
eating tangerines and pomegranate seeds under the morning sun
Within the roots of this land, I envision the songs and sitcoms blaring
from dada’s old television set, somehow still intact after all these years
listening to Noor Jehan and watching reruns of “Fifty Fifty”
until we got sick of it
Within the roots of this land, I picture the timeless beauty
of pastel sunsets and gloomy skies overhead
I imagine our elders tentatively reminding us to pray, echoing the peaceful melody of the adhan
basking in the sweetness of salah
scrambling to dada’s side at the edge of his prayer rug
plush and always warm
as if he never left it
Within the roots of this land my dear, I think of the stories of the women who came before us,
bedazzled with the adornments bestowed on them through generations
golds and silvers forever embellished across our bold and beautiful skin
I dream of the handmade rugs blanketing every floor throughout the house
intricate designs flourishing everywhere; heritage and passion woven through the seams
Within the roots of this land, I imagine listening to folk music
playing vibrantly and unapologetically
cozy evenings filled with our take on brown politics and our dreams for the future,
our hopes and sorrows and how they take up all the space in our hearts
countless solemn nights and unnoticed tears shed by our ancestors
because the pain never left – only worsened with age,
the familiar grief of war colonizing our elders
a trauma that now plagues their grandchildren
Yes indeed within the roots of this land,
I wonder about all the secrets and stories untold
of a country we hold so near to our hearts
yet it’s funny how some of us can only dream from afar,
a tragic love story between the forgotten native and their motherland.
