About my relationship with half of my origin, inherited from my Bangladeshi mother. |
Return to Mother’s Land To a plane, to a place… My freckled father calls her my Motherland. Surely she is my mother’s land, shallow earth dug from the water that I packed away in intricate patterned saris and coconut husks, wrapped in mosquito nets, Nannu’s loud phone calls, and the language I knew, but stutter-stumble now, bandaged in love-worn jeering and the locked door of the nearest bathroom. It’s an exotic everything, except for me. There were times when I hid in the latte skin that I must wear without rest. There were times when I shamed beneath that cloth as the burlaps goggled unabashedly. I’d try to avert my eyes, though the stares spilled from every crevice and corner, and I drowned in them. This time I lift up my telltale face, wear with pride my belly, my breasts, my creamy skin. And wade through the stares. I glance from one to the next, take a whiff, the sweet-spice of paan, a scent that instantly recalls ripe orange colours, fibrous sponge textures. My mind reels from the reality of memories. The stale grey-time of inbetween passed too quickly to prepare… and I missed the veined red-paper flowers at landing. Touch-down is a hard jolt. I gulp in polluted air, the static before an airport riot. Nerves buzz as I respond to an image: bough-like rifles laid easy in the arms of uniforms. A crow gives me a puzzled welcome, head cocked to say, “Where’d you go?” Again I am sent in a dizzy spin as I look at my cousins, snips of yesterday, and wonder at the character who has finally filled these once-shoes of mine. |