The following is an excerpt from Naima Rashid’s Sum of Worlds. Rashid is an author, poet and translator. Her work
has been long-listed for the National Poetry Competition and Best Small Fictions. Her published works include critically acclaimed translations of works by Ali Akbar Natiq (Naulakhi Kothi) and Perveen Shakir (Defiance of the Rose) and a joint translation from French (Chicanes). Her work and views have been widely published internationally including in Wild Court, Poetry Birmingham, The Scores and Asymptote. This is her fourth book.>
Weave >
Like a broker of brocades, >
a sea of cloth around her, >
it was always like this that I found her, >
rosary still in hand, >
prayer still on lips. >
She was a devotee simply continuing >
an act of worship.
I came to her temple >
like a heathen at a wrong address,
with a kind of dread >
and a kind of awe.
She would ease into it gently, >
begin unfurling the mounds of memories. >
The tea towels were her wedding gift from an uncle >
who wore the tallest turban in the village, >
who walked on foot in his polished black shoes >
all the miles to the village >
where he had fallen in love with a married woman, >
whom he ultimately made his bride. >
You could find them no more, >
these khais from Faisalabad, >
her nieces had hand-woven them on a spindle; >
they had a rare weave. >
The nieces don’t talk to her anymore because of a family feud; these are all she has of them. >
I couldn’t trawl that mine of memories >
across the mountains I have to trek, >
and the oceans I have to sail. >
The sum of my life >
fits snugly in a North Face bag. >
These pieces were not other from her; >
her soul was grafted on to them; >
the way she would caress the cotton, >
slide her hands over the silk, >
touch the tassels of a gifted prayer rug, >
she was honouring the souls of the gifters, >
catching the breath of the parted ones, >
touching up in her mind >
the homes of those to come. >
And all this while I’m thinking >
Isn’t she planting a garden of pressed flowers, >
plucked from between the pages of time? >
Why isn’t she more interested in buds? >
A macramé that was the only adornment >
she could afford in their first house >
which they rented at ten rupees a month, >
a wedding dress with hair-like golden thread >
at the helm – the only object she carried >
when they fled Ludhiana for Lahore, >
embroidered platitudes she sold >
to make ends meet. >
The fabric was fraught with her fight, >
it held the stories she knew would never >
make it into history books. >
Her legacy was sprawled around her, >
the question trembled in her eyes. >
I couldn’t bring myself to look up, >
lest she read that >
I am no worthy care taker >
of this sea of yards and yarns. >
My style is cross-body; >
I live hands-free. >
>
Plasma >
Sundown is litmus, >
the cruelest hour to bear. >
‘The silence can get too loud’ >
‘The TV will drown the silence.’ >
The way light fell on it >
in that lounge like a cavern, >
it was always our own silhouettes we saw >
in the backdrop of talk shows and dramas. >
Our shrinking frames were drowning in that large, looming house. >
Sometimes we felt there was a link >
between the guilt of those who had left >
and the size of the TV screens that arrived. >
‘Fragile’, they said. ‘Handle with care.’ >
>
Idle Blades >
Bad omen >
badshagoon— >
scissors >
when they snap >
idly >
cutting air >
instead of objects. >
Elders used to say >
it caused fights in households. >
Knives >
tongues >
scissors— >
they’re all the same. >
Their work is the work of evil >
when left unrestrained >
So you can blame >
a broken home >
on scissors, >
on blades that snapped on idly >
not knowing >
whom they hurt >
or how much. >
>
Resident Ghost >
Over time >
the gold leaf will wither >
but the imprint of letters burnt in the spine >
will stay— >
one half of a writer’s life, >
the realm of forever. >
It’s with humans as it is with books; >
a single column holds the frame in place. >
Have you ever tried to erase a father? >
Look through him like a ghost, >
pretend he wasn’t there? >
It’s impossible to do, he grows back. >
Cut him off, and you’ll see it’s your own limb you lost. >
You are never alone >
when you walk >
somewhere in the back, >
the ghost of a father lingers, >
too proud for apology >
too late for redress. >
He’ll linger where you least suspect, >
haunt you unawares between yourself and yourself, >
a voice steadying your cursive as you write, >
a remembered tremor from a reprimanding tap >
(‘Stay a certain distance above the line’). >
Back in the day, it was lost on you >
the beauty of a calligrapher’s pen >
and the standard of the chiseled nib (‘Ball points are suicide’) >
you were too young to value the attention to little things >
not knowing what a thing of beauty it was >
to have someone look that far out for you. >
He is a resident ghost. Listen, >
it’s his voice in your throat >
as you speak to your own son >
your voice steadying itself >
at a timbre >
firm enough to keep him from falling >
gentle enough to let him fly. >
>
Soundtrack of a Broken Home >
It starts as a tear, >
then the chasm widens. >
Silence is the infill for everything— >
what hurts, >
what you can’t make sense of, >
what you hate, >
what won’t go away. >
It’s a silence >
that turns everything to stone, >
a silence that says >
it’s too late for amends, >
laden with the weight of wasted moments; >
the debris of unspoken nothings that were >
meant to sweeten the everyday >
suddenly standing like a dam of concrete, >
the swell of the unsaid >
pounding at the gates. >
Tiny slips added up, each little nothing >
grown into its full charge of rage. >
Time keeps score, >
and the body keeps score. >
A perfume from a pilgrimage >
becomes a sculpture >
through neglect, >
lying in the same spot unnoticed, >
immortalizing the clumsiness of the giver, >
and the refusal of the taker, >
frozen in abstraction at that tilted angle >
on the drawing room table >
where everyone would see it >
several times a day >
but say nothing and ask nothing. >
Ellipses were the coverall >
for question marks and full stops, >
missing lines of text, >
whole pages left blank. >
Just when you think >
you had mastered the language of silence, >
that’s when the screams begin >
They last all life long. >
>
Naima Rashid is an author, poet and translator. >