“Zulaykha, meri bhi mehendi laga do!”
“Zulaykha, apply henna on me too” a poem i wrote on eid.
June 14, 1953, Lahore
Eid arrives once again with feathery clouds and continual rain,
and each time it drizzles on my window I remember you.
I always hated the smell of mehendi1, but it has been five Eids
since I have been staining my fingers with them.
I have been so good at adorning my hands with mehendi,
that Aapa2 even begs me to do it for her too.
On that day, you told me your chadar3 was intricately
embroidered by your aunt in Kashmir.
I still have it, with the stubborn blood patches,
neatly folded in the back of my almirah.
To remember you even more today,
I'm wearing a red shalwar kameez4,
hand stitched by a young man from Srinagar.
Nani Amma5 still lovingly asks about you.
By each passing day she is losing her memory,
but she never forgets you and your love for poetry.
So today she gave me a delicate envelope,
filled with cut-out ghazals6 from latest magazines, and Eidi to mail to you.
And just like the past five years, in her ignorance,
I stuck the ghazals on my journal and gave the Eidi to charity.
I am still not used to the bustling atmosphere of Lahore.
These cracked walls and cold floors have requested me back in 49’,
to send a letter to your house.
I had hoped your kind-hearted brother or soft-spoken father would respond,
but all I received was a letter full of mockery and insolence.
Your house in Jalandhar is now occupied.
They mailed me the plaque, which was outside your door,
boldly and proudly engraved with your father's name.
I dream about us a lot.
Other than the screams in the train of September 47’,
other than the hunger and thirst,
other than the undulating tracks and the uncertainty of death.
I dream of our days in the madrasah7,
your confident recitals of Iqbal and Ghalib and how I admired your eloquence,
you teaching me how to make gajray8 during your brother's wedding,
and me applying surma9 to your hazel eyes because you were too scared to do it yourself.
When I look in the mirror I can't help but think,
that I am a fragmented version of you Sumayya.
A museum of everything you've done and said for me.
And when I wash my hands, sometimes all I can see
is the foam of your blood seeping through the fragile pages of my skin,
staining darker than the mehendi.
I scrub again and again with soap,
only for the blood to coagulate beneath my fingernails,
until I can no longer tell if it's my blood or yours.
This golden, filigree-framed mirror encapsulates something unsaid in me,
a vile survivor.
Sumayya, please come back and look for me in the nations' borders because I'm always lost.
Sumayya, sometimes I wish I was the one in the train who was relentlessly shot.
~afifa
henna, a type of temporary natural tattoo, often used in the Middle East and South Asia, for specific events like Eid and weddings.
Urdu term for elder sister.
Urdu term for shawl.
traditional Pakistan clothing. “Shalwar” is the type of pants, “kameez” is the dress.
Maternal grandmother
Urdu term for a type of sonnet
Urdu term for school, usually for Quran/Islamic school
Flower garlands, usually worn on the wrists by women in weddings.
Kohl, a natural black pigment you apply on your waterline.
A commendable piece of work with apt eloquence.🎉✨
Beautiful!