THE BRIDGE

Preternatural Times by Sufia Humayun - Pakistan

I still miss the times when

Qaria was just Qaria

Not seamstress- stitching clothes of her students

Not beautician- plucking eyebrows of her students' mothers'

Not moper/dish washer- moping/washing. . .

 

The times when students did mop and dish-wash

To pay for her services- Teaching recitation

With Qirat

Without Qirat...

 

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The Plucked Mulberries by Sufia Humayun - Pakistan

There they lay in bunches. Dark purple, pink purple, blue purple and green. Embracing each other. Amid leaves. Bursting out. Intact. Finally, it was there, two hands reached out to pluck. Grins getting bigger each time the bag felt heavier. I wasn’t even breathing lest I was heard. It was going on alright until some horn honked and there was a bark. Not one bark. But I did not move since I knew it was locked behind the gate. He kept barking and running sideways in frenzy. It’s when he banged and banged and banged that we took to our heels. I could not feel my legs. Something was pulling me. Oh no! it was pushing me. My ears drummed with throbbing heart. All I could see was an unending narrow street that led to another and that to another street and so on. The sun was blinding my vision, I had to shut my eyes now and then to block sweat invasion. I ran alone until the barking chasing me started distancing. Alone until, someone griped my dress and tore it from the middle. Right where the gathers of my frock are stitched into frill. Just then, I remembered, I was not alone. Scampering. I never was alone. Never outside. My younger sister still clutching onto my torn dress was panting. Her blood red cheeks sizzled beads and dark brown hair looked disheveled. I looked around. Nothing except streets tailored with green belts on both sides. Trees umbrellaed each belt; Lime. Creepers creeped up to walls; Jasmine and bougainvillea. Marigold, Laal saag, Gul-e- mehndi, cupid's dart and sulfur cosmos hemmed the belts. I took hold of her hand and dragged her to the side of the street.  

“Do you still have them?” I huffed sitting on the grass. The grass felt soft like baby and soothingly wet too. Someone must have watered it a while ago as it was still pungent with whiff of wet soil. The small cherries on my sister’s dress were popping out on the grass.  

“There”

She handed me a shopping bag, blue and plastic. I peeped into it to see it all smitten with purple from inside...

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Bakra Eid with Frozen Bakra ! by Sufia Humayun - Pakistan

Eid is a holiday of euphoria. Two holidays in number actually- chotti eid and barri eid or the titles meethi eid and bakra eid add perkiness true to its spirit and soul. It sounds vapid if you just say: Eid ul Fitr and Eid ul Adha. Vapid does it truly sound but still the same holiday. My son memorized Eid ul Adha and Eid ul Fitr mincing the words with jejune platitude. In my childhood I too swotted to cram the names until I was able to put down Eid ul Adha on answer sheets during exams but always kicked my heels avidly for Bakra Eid. As life back then was scheduled around two Eids and summer vacation. For me Bakra Eid was about dolling myself up with new dress, new shoes, new purse (even though empty to the point of desolation and ineffectual) long and shiny beaded necklace as the only jewelry and red lipstick (that’s the only color my mum had, my aunt loved to wear chocolate brown though) like in meethi eid but a little more than that where the excitement to titivating myself up was clasped by divertissement to feed and pull the goat around with the gusto like it’s going to be the first and last serendipity to pull and feed goats before Zill Hajj hits again. As a child I used to pity those who did not participate in—“bloodshed”? (in words of Sara Suleri) Now I browse Insta and pity myself. All the festive clothes mocking my childhood Eid dresses that my mother spent nights stitching for me and we (by we I mean my sisters) sitting by her surmising how these shredded pieces of cloth are going to look on Eid day when tacked together.  There was always a sense of compliance that I had made my peace with- the surety that all the best laces and best fabrics are going to make dresses for my elder sister. Hence, I had sheathed my sword, because I knew that’s how the inheritance policy works. Trickling down from top to the bottom...

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Lahore Canal Bank Road by Sufia Humayun - Pakistan

Sprouting leaves, rustle and stir with the wind,

The swishing wind of May.

That comes like gale at night

Leaving without a trace for the day.

Golden streaks flicker, as the wind betrays,

On the water moving statically  

The trees bending on the water in obedience for ages...

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