as i type eid mubarak it makes me nauseous. like throwing up. it makes my heart sink. for all those Ismaels who werent invited at the altar but straight away beheaded. for all those Ibrahims whose children never returned. not eveb for final goodbyes. for all those mothers like Ismales mother. whove been gasping at their safa and marwa and yet wait for divine intervention.
as i stare at my mehndi for long it turns into blood. blood spilled while i had my uninterrupted sleep. blood spilled while i had my morning walk. blood spilled while i devoured my evening chai. blood spilled while i backed coffee cake for my nephew. while i painted flowers to adorn my bulging walls. blood spilled in south while i went up to north to witness the beauty nature offers. while i wrote odes to those lands on my way back.
and as i sort out my chooriyan their khanak fades away somewhere. all i hear is the sobbing of my people. their freedom prayers. piercing through their prison cells. i hear the weeping of those who are left alone to fight their battles. battles that are already lost. battles that are made for them to lose. not only what they had. but who the were.
and as i continue to write eid mubarak laughter echos somewhere. as i continue to write eid mubarak i find myself only staring at the bulging wall.