by Reem Faruqi
I scoop a handful of seeds,
knot them tight in my dupatta.
I will pack these with me,
take them with me,
feed the birds there,
feed them
for her.
Nana
When I tell
the mother
of my mother
goodbye,
she hugs me so tight
holds me so long
my eyes feel hot.
She is lucky.
She gets to stay.
Her roots spread deep
and don’t have to be uprooted
like me.
Did you know nasturtium flowers
don’t like to be uprooted?
Their roots don’t like new soil.
Nana
Should actually be called Nani—
mother of my mother.
But Owais’s first word was Nana—
father of my mother.
So Nana
Who is always giving us food
Who is always giving us clothes
Who is always giving us books
Who gives us everything really
grabbed the word
and said
mine.
Nana
Superb
is what Nana says
about my art
when I join her
in the afternoons
underneath the veranda fan
to paint, draw, sketch.
When I have a brush
in my hand
or a pencil,
my insides breathe.
But now that we’re moving,
Nana is too busy to paint, draw, sketch.
I can read her mind
through her quiet sighs,
slight wrinkles,
mouth stitched together,
so she doesn’t say too much.
Still—
Nana’s disapproval
is like charcoal on paper,
heavy and smudged.
They say children are more resilient than we think.
Nonsense.
Children are far less resilient than we think.
(Nana knows everything.)
My Grandmother Nana’s Hands
Pierced my ears
when I was a baby.
Fed me my first bites
of mushy khichri.
Now her hands stay busy
making clothes
for me before I leave.
Now her hands
buy yards of cotton cloth at the bazaar,
piping at the lace stall,
bring the cloth home,
soak the cloth in a plastic bucket,
so it doesn’t shrink, of course,
dry it in the sun, and take it to the tailor,
then phone the tailor—
Are the clothes ready yet?
Then return to the tailor to pick up the clothes,
hand the tailor crisp notes,
rewash and starch the clothes,
before finally giving them to me,
perfectly folded and ready to be packed.
Fold your dreams and pack them too
while you’re at it,
her eyes say.
With us gone,
what will her hands do now?
Blue Cocoon
Under the peach sky
under the crows cawing
under the veranda
by the garden
is the pool.
One thing
Owais and I do
no matter what
every day
is swim swim swim
in Nana and Nana Abu’s pool.
Nana Abu floats like a tree
sways side to side.
Nana bobs up and down
down and up
in her swimsuit and sari petticoat
while Owais and I
swim laps
back and forth
forth and back.
Owais’s arms and legs
have more rhythm than mine,
have more speed than mine,
he wins medal upon medal.
But still
we are the
Underwater Siblings.
Down at the bottom
of the pool floor
we are in a
a bright-blue world.
Safe
in our blue cocoon.
Can we stay here until
the clouds go to sleep?
They can’t make us move—
can they?
But we must
move
the same way
we must
come up for air.
Motia and Mehndi
Before ourlongflight,
Asna’s fat mehndi cone
swirls green farewell paisleys
and her initials and mine
intertwined
on my empty palms.
I push my new glasses up my nose
to study my new hands.
Before ourlongflight,
white fragrant motia flowers
are threaded together
in three delicate circles.
One circle of flowers
loops lazily over my ponytail.
Two circles of flowers
placed on my
too-skinny wrists
by Nana.
Polished petals
hinting
at New Possibilities.
At hope?
Part Two
On Land
Differences attack my senses.
The American airport has no smells.
The AC is strong.
The floor is carpeted.
The voices are bold.
The clothes are different.
And why is everyone wearing jeans?
settle
verb set·tle se-tәl
Definition of SETTLE
: to end (something, such as an argument) by reaching an agreement
: to make a final decision about (something)
: to move to a place and make it your home
My mother
laughs on the phone
and tells the mother of my mother
how well we are settling.
But Nana doesn’t see
what I do.
Ammi’s eyes still aren’t smiling
when she laughs,
and her eye circles run deep.
Nana doesn’t see
Ammi braiding her hair
with one hand
twirl bend loop
or
biting her nails
into crescents—
something she only does
when she’s nervous.
Settled is
when your roots are strong
and spread out every which way
like that tree—oak?
in the hotel parking lot.
(I don’t know
my American trees yet.)
Settled is
when it’s hard to pull you up,
when it’s easier just to leave you
exactly
how
you
are.
I am
dandelion fluff
ready to float
away.
If I could,
I would
float all the way back home.
I don’t even need a breeze.
My roots are anything but settled.
Nurah Haqq
I used to be light
and free
before we moved.
My name means
“light” in Arabic and Urdu,
but I do not feel light or free
anymore.
I feel heavy,
even though
I will probably be the
lightest
in my class,
with maybe
the
darkest skin color.
So much for light.
My Mother
Wears a hijab
neatly pinned
around her face.
Wears a hijab
because she is Muslim,
not because she is Pakistani.
Yet even when
she does wear jeans
and lightly lines her eyes with
L’Oréal instead of kajal,
I doubt they are lined
with American hope.
Before the move,
it felt like my mother was in color.
Bold.
Now she’s in black and white.
Faded.
Her movements are smaller,
her smiles zipped.
Her “back home” accent is turned down,
like volume on a knob.
What more will she lose?
Language Barrier
But your English is so good . . .
is what we hear.
Yet
from the car,
when we order food
from McDonald’s
fast
the way it’s done in America
fast
they don’t understand us.
So we learn
fast
to stop saying water
with a soft t—
instead with a hard d.
A hardness new to us.
But old to Americans.
We learn fast.
We learn
the supermarket is a grocery store.
A dustbin is a trash can.
A trolley is a shopping cart.
We learn to move quickly in line,
not linger.
We learn to not expect tea and snacks
everywhere we go.
Language
Pakistan is said like: Pack-is-stan
Muslim is said like: Muzz-lim.
Water is said like: Wah-der.
All wrong.
Pakistan is supposed to be “Pah-kiss-tahn.”
In “Muslim,” the u is supposed to be like oo in book,
the s a soft and gentle pout—
not a hard z
buzzing back at you.
Which Land Is Mine?
In Peachtree City, Georgia,
the trees touch the sky
and the air smells different.
The water tastes different too.
The wind is pure
and free
from exhaust.
Yet the sidewalks are empty.
The roads have only cars.
In Karachi, Pakistan,
the trees are shorter
like me.
The air has whiffs of exhaust
and mango juice is plentiful.
Rickshaws sputter on the roads.
A donkey here or there.
Scooters everywhere.
Sellers of every kind
selling
coconuts
birds in cages
balloons
towels.
They all
gather on the road.
Different melodies
all at once.
Even though their lives
are hard,
they seem free.
Yet America with
its pure air
and people stuck inside
all day
is known as
the land of the free.
Pakistan with
its free people everywhere
and dirty air
is known as
the land of the pure.
Hotel
We are in a hotel
and our bags are
sticking their tongues out
at us
half opened
spilling their contents out
just so.
Our room is ugly
with small windows
the color of spit
and Owais and I are
restless, trapped
even though it is sunny out.
Go get your Quran.
Let’s read Surah Al-Kahf.
Ammi’s voice is
too floaty,
too cheerful.
Owais’s eyebrows hug.
His face is light enough to turn red.
Whoever reads Surah Al-Kahf
on Friday will have a light that shines
from one Friday to the next.
Go get it now,
commands Ammi.
You can’t make me.
Her voice
is fragile poison.
What did you say?
I want to tell Owais
don’t say anything.
Just sit down with me,
open your Quran,
and read Surah Al-Kahf,
the way we always did on Fridays.
The melodious words
of peace
rolling off
our
tongues.
Instead,
his voice is
dangerously quiet.
You can’t make me.
Ammi raises
her palm
while I wait for the
stinging sound
of
skin to skin.
The hot slap.
You know,
here in America,
I can call the cops
and DFCS can take you away?
He walks to the door.
Tears pinch my nose tight.
I who never cry
in front of anyone,
never ever
find that my face
is wet.
Little
When we were little
and Ammi would tell us
to go pray,
we would listen.
But when we would put our foreheads
on the ground,
instead of praying,
we would look at each other
and whisper secrets.
Now,
I look at my brother,
and I don’t know who he is,
or what his secrets are.
Stop
They both look at me,
surprised.
My tears
surprise me most.
I cover my face,
hoping the embarrassment
evaporates.
Relieved that their voices are
mute.
Owais, who was
on his way out,
stops
turns
changes his face.
Nurah, I didn’t mean
to make you cry.
Sorry.
Ammi, I can’t take it anymore.
I hate this place.
I’ll read later.
And then he is
slamming the door
behind him,
gone.
My Family
Is beginning to fracture
one day at a time
while we are stuck
in this stuffy
hotel room.
Maybe when school starts
when the leaves
start changing
colors . . .
Baba has promised us
the leaves will change into
the colors of
hot spices:
cumin, red pepper, and turmeric.
Maybe then, things will get better.
Ammi Says
You should:
Make your bed
Go for a walk
Pray on time
Go find a pool
Go find a pool . . . ?
Owais and I
exchange a look.
If we find
a safe blue cocoon,
maybe then
our moods
will cool?
Where?
Where is a pool?
/>
Where are the crows?
Where is the garden?
Where is home?
They’re a 15-hour flight away.
Part Three
The Rec Center
A sigh of relief
even though it
smells of
stale socks
and warm sweat,
because most importantly
there is the smell of chlorine.
A pool.
Warm Welcome
I s l o w l y
d
i
p
the big
toe
of my
right foot
into the pool.
Bliss.
Blue Cocoon
Under the water
the bright-blue world
welcomes me
with a cool hug.
Under the water
Owais and I exchange
one watery smile.
If I just close my eyes
hard enough,
if I float just so,
I can almost imagine
I’m back
home.
Trophy Case
Between the locker rooms
is a shiny wall
with swimming medals and trophies,
and when we walk by the wall,
Owais takes a quick look.
But I take a
slow
look,
place my hands on the glass,
leave behind smudgy fingerprints,
but take my dreams with me . . .
TV
On the Olympics channel
Owais and I
tune in to swimming.
As I watch,
I hold my breath.
Exhale when
the race is over.
Owais flicks off the TV.
Keep practicing
maybe you can be in the Olympics . . . ,
says Baba
looking at Owais
the star athlete.
My mouth turns
the tiniest bit down,
so he adds
You too, Nurah!
I nod,
turn my lips back up again.
But the good energy in the room
that was swimming around us
is now drowning me.
What does it feel like
to be a winner?
School Morning
On my first day of school
when we climb into the big yellow bus
step by step
we don’t know that Baba follows our bus to school
stop by stop.
Ammi tells us later
Baba wanted to make sure
we reached school safely.