feeding my soul

Yes, it happens in the kitchen. A peaceful symphony of spices at different temperatures to bring out the many nuances of their personalities; garlic ground fresh with salt, sometimes with a bit of chilli, and all my foremothers know I’ve earned my place in this most sacred of domains. Vinegar soaking into the sinews of red meat and I’ve practiced a sunnah and handed down a tradition to my daughters. Oh don’t I think I’m grand, don’t I know it and don’t I prove it when I feed others and soothe a gnawing pain and satisfy a craving, both mine and theirs. Tomatoes grated into red, gloopy loveliness. Onions sliced finely as a measure of my expertise. ‘Zanjabeel’ peeled into slivers of warm aroma. They all whisper a melody of ages, of healing. Of comfort. Because what I make with my hands is all the more dear, the passion seeps through my fingers and the muted rosaries I utter mingle seamlessly with the sizzling pot. Flavoured steam winds its way through my hair and the fabric of my clothes becoming eternally a part of who I am and all I will do. Something out of nothing. A tale out of longing. Whhole dhana surrenders itself to all consuming heat and mustard seeds jump around uncomfortably finally clinging for all they’re worth to marshmallow-soft potatoes. A magic spell woven out of what comes miraculously from the earth. I cook beauty…peace…mystery and, therefore I must be by extension, beautiful, peaceful and mysterious at heart. A thought that makes me giggle and smile, a thought that brings happiness to my kitchen. Its just God and me in here and for once I listen and follow each instruction to the best of my flawed abililty. And when its all done I open the lid impatiently; an expectant mother, a proud architect, a nervous choirmaster. I hope; a taste that will tell a thousand tales.

empty cot

You had your fathers eyes
And now, six years down the line
My heart still clenches that extra bit more
When I watch him sleep.

I’ve watched you grow
Through other children your age
And I’ve pined the first night of every single Ramadhaan to hold you once more.

Ten months pregnant and nobody listened when I said you were ready to be born
And it was three days of beautifully excrutiating pain and a few minutes before they cut you out
When I felt you die.

You didn’t cry and the doctor ran out with you in his arms
And back home they were told to prepare for a janazah salaah after taraweeh.
The nurse said we all worship in our own ways.

I only cried six weeks later when the milk you were supposed to be drinking wouldn’t stop flowing.

I miss you still, Mohammed Mikaeel.