Mama’s Life Through Partition

1922, In Kenya, Jahan, we call you Mama, the mother of my mother’s mother is born and to India, like birds in the spring, they return
Searching for the faith that beats like theirs, she was washed over by Islam
Her family patient in the tide of Hinduism

1937, A new boy at the piano lesson, Faizal Malik,
he was the whisper of harmony and she was the murmur of melody

1939, Together, they were truly marvelous
Declaring their being of marvelous through the sound waves that are the radio, their voices projected through family barriers
You bearers of five girls, one of them I call grandma

1947, The Partition of India history books have termed this,
The separation of sisters you have lived.
Pakistan for the Muslims!
India for the Hindus!
Not once more will your melody murmur to your family

1952, A car has crushed half of your marvelous
Lahore buries the councilman, and five daughters bury a father, You fend alone
Mama, my great-grandmother, your fingers are the point of a needle scratching the doors of a school
Your daughters own the right to education

1965, Your bindi-wearing, sari sporting, daughter weds the army colonel
And four children they bear, one of them I call Mom
And in their bones are your colors

1970s, Grandma is globally owning her right to education
Along with the colonel, the four children she bore are now under your care

1982, Pakistan is now deprived of Mother’s presence
Her feet now prance through what is 110 st and Broadway
Owns her right to the education you dreamed to stir into reality
Your colors permanent in her bones
Your mehndhi stained on her hands

1988, Pakistan is now vacant of my father’s presence
New York gains a developer of the city,
But five siblings stretch thousands of miles to reach a brother

1993, Mama, the strong woman you are
You have been so strong, the architect of your body injected a weakness
Breast cancer, they title it
Defeated, you label this

1996, The attachment of my mother and father represented as two rings
Together, they were truly marvelous

1999, Two years after my sister, I was born with your colors permanent in my bones
And your bindi stuck to my forehead
Mama, I am the tsunami that pulled your faith
And washed it over the world

2002, My brother now enters the sunlight we stand in
He is brought into our world
With her colors in his bones
He is part of our stream

2004, Mama, of the five daughters you bear
The one I call grandma has lost half of her marvelous,
He was invaded by cancer, but the architecture of his body let it take power
Four children bury a father, eight children bury a grandfather
And your daughter buries half of her marvelous
Grandfather, I still see you in the flicker of flames I stare into
And the shadow that trees project over me

2005,  My youngest brother is brought into our world
He enters the wave my siblings and I have commenced

2011, Mama, I look into your eyes and see the memories I am able to rewrite into songs and carry on what you have brought to this world
You look into mine and see a stranger
Only sometimes do you remember the new boy at the piano lesson
Only sometimes do you remember the sisters you were forced to leave behind

2014, Mama, I can no longer look into your eyes or hold your hand
Flooding myself with the memories I have written into songs
To silence your pain

I have continued your wave
I will pass down the color you embedded in my bones, my mother’s bones, and her mother’s bones

I have washed the world
Hands stained with your mendhi
Forehead stamped with your bindi

I have come in a wave among the world
Drumming the beat of your faith

In my wave,
I have owned the rights your needles for fingers scratched for me to have

In my wave, I have washed over the world,
Continuing the energy of your movement.

[Read Related: Confronting Female Violence in Pakistani Culture]

The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.

By Sara Zulfiqar

Sara Zulfiqar is a college freshman at NYIT. She was always involved with writing, literature, and art at her high school and … Read more ›

Photo by VAKS-Stock Agency via Shutterstock.com

“Take what you want//Take everything” reflects on a time with my partner and our cat, Layla. It’s a retelling of the chaotic night I adopted her. I didn’t know why Layla hid from me. When I chased her around, it scared her more. “Take what you want//Take everything” juxtaposes our first night, filled with misunderstanding, with the rest of the time we spent together. My fond memories call back to the loving moments Layla and I shared.

Such memories defined us; they reverberated in my partnership. I wonder if my partner, like Layla, only remembers her fear of me, over our shared moments of love. The title, a Kanye West lyric, is an acknowledgment that their happiness together–without me–destroyed my sense of self. When I see their photos, I wonder if I can see myself reflected in their eyes. I wonder if they still keep kind moments of our time together.

[Read Related: Artivist Poem Essay-Studmavati]

Take what you want//Take everything

I remember when she would look at me from behind a laundry basket.

A small simple cat with green owl eyes. She was afraid of her new home and its owner. Shit, I remember the night I got her, she hid under my bed, in the middle just out of my reach for maybe 6 hours, watching me. She didn’t eat anything the entire day. When the night fell I was afraid she’d starve or come out and attack me. I was just scared. I didn’t have a childhood pet, I’m not white, I didn’t know what to do. I picked up the whole bed and yelled that she needed to move. I chased her into the closet with a vacuum cleaner. When she ran in, I called my lover and yelled to her that she wasn’t helping enough, she needed to be there to help me. That was our first day together, me and that cat. No one will ever have that memory but me and maybe her.

It was during Ramadan, my first year fasting.

Our problems had already begun by then. Enough so that I decided to fast and show retribution. I’d try to change into a more patient and understanding self. Like the Prophet (SAW) I guess. To become someone that my lover could feel safe around. Somehow, getting a cat felt like it fit into that picture. I’d be a cat dad, you know, gentle. We’d raise her. I’d fast and become New Again. Maybe I’d wrap an inked tasbih around myself and show I’m a man of God.

I don’t know how a cat remembers fear any more than I know how a lover does.

I know her body stored it. My cat’s must have stored it too. That first night, I wish I could tell her that I was afraid too. It doesn’t make sense that I was afraid really — I’m bigger, more threatening. We don’t speak the same language anyway, so how could I ever tell her? She learned to trust me though, in her own way. Her small bean paws would press on my chest in the mornings. She’d meow to berate me for locking her out some nights, or when I was away from home too long.

She lives with my lover now. They share photos with me, they’re happy together.

I saw my lover once, it was on 55th and 7th, Broadway shined blue performance lights over us. She wore a red sacral dress. She said her mental health has never been better. I think she was trying to tell me that she’s doing well, because she knows I care for her. I don’t think she was trying to say she’s happier without me. We don’t speak the same language. I actually think they are happier with just each other. And I loved them both, so it hurts. Sometimes, not all the time. And it doesn’t always hurt that bad. Other times it does get pretty bad, though. I probably owe it to myself to say that.

I look back at the photos, the ones of our life together, and the ones of their new life.

Two green owl eyes, and two brown moonlit eyes. I look for myself in them.

[Read Related: How Love Matures as you Grow]

By Umrao Shaan

Umrao Shaan is a short storyist, poet, and ghazals singer. You can find his songs on his Instagram. His other … Read more ›

Photo by kittirat roekburi via Shutterstock.com

Social media has stretched a number of news headlines:

“Social media rots kids’ brains.”

“Social media is polarizing.”

Yet those most affected by social media ideals are the teenage users. Apps like Instagram and TikTok perpetuate an image of perfection that is captured in pictures and 30-second videos. As a result, many young women chase this expectation endlessly. “Her” personifies this perfection in an unattainable figure the narrator has always wished to be. These ideals deteriorate mental health, create body dysmorphia, promote a lack of self-esteem, and much more. Even so, social media is plagued by filters and editing—much of what we hope to achieve isn’t even real. Therefore, young women, much like the narrator of “Her,” strive for a reality that doesn’t even exist.

[Read Related: The Emotional Roller Coaster of Getting Your Legs Waxed for the First Time]

Her

When she walked into my life
Her smile took up two pages of description
In a YA novel.
My arms could wrap around her waist twice
If she ever let anyone get that close
Her hair whipped winds with effortless beach waves
And a hint of natural coconut
Clothing brands were created around her
“One Size Fits All” one size to fit the girl who has it all
With comments swarning in hourglasses
But when sharp teeth nip at her collar,
She could bite back biting back
And simply smirked with juicy apple lips
Red hearts and sympathy masking condescension
“My body doesn’t take away from the beauty of yours”
“We are all equal, we are all beautiful”
Beauty
A sword she wields expertly
Snipping, changing,
Aphrodite in consistent perfection
Cutting remarks with sickly sweet syrup
And an innocent, lethal wink
When she walked into my life
She led my life.
My wardrobe winter trees
Barren, chopped in half
Unsuited for the holidays
Mirrors were refracted under in my gaze
Misaligned glass was the only explanation
For unsymmetrical features
And broken hands
Still I taped them fixed
Over and over
Poking, prodding
Hoping to mold stomach fat like wet clay
Defy gravity,
Move it upward
To chest
Instead of sagging beneath a belt on the last hole
In the spring
She would stir me awake at 2 AM
“You need to be me”
Lies spilled from her tongue but
Solidified, crystallized
Fabrication spelled dichotomy
And I drifted farther out to sea
When she walked out of my life,
I was drowning.
Reliance had me capsized
Others witnessed
Furrowed brows and glances away
Like spectators of a shark attack
They can watch but the damage is done
They clung to my mangled pieces
Gravestones spelled
“Stressed”
“Depressed”
But I was mourning too
Today I looked back at my mirror
But glass turned into prism
Broken pieces rainbow
Colors coating clothes
She didn’t pick
Aphrodite
Perception changing
She wasn’t perfect
Just lost at sea

[Read Related: Finding Freedom from Gender Roles Through Poetry]

The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.

By Kashvi Ramani

Kashvi Ramani is a writer, actress, songwriter, and singer from Northern Virginia. She has been writing songs, poetry, scripts, and … Read more ›

Photo Courtesy of Varsha Panikar

“After so Long” is a poetry film created for Simha’s EP, which is streaming on Spotify, Apple Music and Amazon Music. The poem was collaboratively written by Simha, a U.S. native, and Jae, who is based in India, during the 2020 lockdown. “After so Long” was recited by Simha and their parents. In 2022, I directed and produced the film through my studio, Star Hopper. “After so Long” premiered on Nowness Asia in March 2022.

By Varsha Panikar

Varsha Panikar (they/he) is a filmmaker, writer and multi-disciplinary artist from India. They are the co-founder of Star Hopper, a … Read more ›