The Sun Bites Down On My Shoulder

The sun bites down on my shoulder

I’m humming a song I can’t remember where I got it from; I think you sang it once when I was in the back seat of your car as we wound up the mountains. I put in my head that it was supposed to keep you out, but I’m singing your favorite song on my only free day. My childish defiance of your affection but you still find a way through me.

It’s warm, and I’m laying down against a beach lounge, letting the sun soak into my brown skin. It kisses me and I feel myself turning red, I know you hate it. I have my sunglasses on, and I act like I can’t hear anything except the sound of the waves breathing down my neck.

You kneel at my feet, where you belong, offering me a cup with a touch of kindness. As our hands briefly meet, I lower my sunglasses, allowing you to see the smile that reaches my eyes so you know I mean it, despite the darkened bags beneath them in the sunlight. With a whispered “thank you,” I take a sip, only to swallow the grit of sand you’ve placed in the cup.

I don’t want to grant you the satisfaction of my discomfort, I swallow without betraying my realization. It’s only later, in the quiet of my bathroom, that I cough it up, clutching the edges of the mirror. Through my blurred vision, all I can discern is the streak of teary eyeliner tracing down my face. I can’t even recognize myself but I know I’m stubborn and you exploit that until my skin burns with rashes worse than the sun could ever. Even months later, I still find myself coughing up bits of sand.

I've gotten so used to seeing your back, your black hair tied up messily as you tirelessly work day and night. I sit on the staircase, not doing much, while you rush past, paying me no mind. This house feels warm, and I have no reason to go outside, nowhere else to be. No one to become. I watch you leave from my window, and I wave goodbye when I know you’ll come back. But I didn’t think of what I would do when you didn’t come back one day, and then the flames consume the house, the walls closing in. I have to find you. I run through the house, I see my reflection in the mirror and I find you in me. I find you in the moon and me in the stars. I find you in the withering flowers and me as the seeds you plant. I stumble outside, knees scraping against concrete. The rain pours, but I barely feel it. My heart aches, it’s bleeding into the raindrops. You’re gone, and I’m alone, but you taught me love and pain. You’ll keep staying a memory, fixed in place, while I move forward without you. I gather myself and return home, but you’re still not there when I get back. But instead I see you in everything I do. I tell myself, “I’ll eventually become just like you one day, so I guess I’ll have to start now” all while I still have you, so that you can help me through all of this.

Grieving Forecast: Warning at Noon, A Remote Control Experience

I spend too much time on my couch, it’s made for two but inhabited by one, my leg draped over the armrest, claiming that little space. There’s a remote control in hand, I flip through channels, cheek resting against the plastic surface.

At noon, the news anchor’s voice fills the room, warning of looming emotions at the doorstep that will swoop you off your feet, a level 4 scare. “Stay wary,” they caution, urging viewers to heed the call.

But, I skip past it and play commercials, it just becomes noise, and then I reach for my phone instead. I check the weather app, even though I already know it’s bad outside. But really, I’m just hoping to catch a glimpse of when the clouds in my head will clear up, of when this pain will ease, when the hurt will dissipate and vanish into thin air. Before I can see, a notification pings on my phone from the news app that distracts me for a moment, it reads along the lines:

“Woman Doesn’t Know What to Say for the Funeral Even Though Nobody has Died Yet, More Details at Seven.”

Except, I’m aware it’s inevitable, that death is relentless, an unstoppable force. It’s the unknown timing that scares me, that creeping preemptive grief that I’ll eventually deal with. It’s a dilemma I fight with. Then, out of nowhere, the crack of thunder startles me from behind, and I still jump, even though I anticipated it.

“Woman Wants to Stop Time to Live in That Perfect Moment Forever, Discovers Healing in Memory and Remembrance, Headline at Eight.”

With a deep breath, I find the courage and do the first brave thing in a long time: grabbing an umbrella as a precaution. It’s a small gesture, but a big step towards a new start. Stepping outside, I find unexpected sun shining onto me that wasn’t forecasted, but it’s not unwelcome. After so long of being inside, I accept it with open arms. I can breathe. I can feel grass grow beneath my feet.

for days, I craved for something perfect, a sweetness to linger on my tongue, a memory to savor for days. I wanted it to shake me up so bad I wouldn’t forget how it tasted even when I haven’t had it in months. I experimented with all kinds of sweeteners—powdered, brown, molasses, even cubes—but none satisfied that bitter feeling in my throat. then, I found it, that perfect sweetness. It became my obsession, seeped into every crevice of my day, in the morning with my coffee to the evening with my tea. People told me it was no good, that I’ll eventually die from heart ache. But, it was simple, easy to swallow. I didn’t have to wrap my head around it. but one afternoon, I realized I didn’t like it anymore when I couldn’t get it past my mouth without feeling the urge to throw up. I felt my gums rot and panic set in as I faced the need for something new. in my desperation, I tossed the sugar into a pot, I tried to fix the hurt by making the old into new, but it stuck stubbornly to the pan and there was no coming back from it.

First language in love, second but more fluent in anger: on planet Venus

Today, I’ve settled into anger’s company. I gesture it to sit across from me at breakfast. I don’t shout it. But I can tell you sense it in my tight fists and clenched jaw. And you? Your silence reverberates down the hall. I can tell you’re angry with every move you do, in the way you sidestep in the doorway and in the glare you give me that you don’t think I notice.

Like two balls of flames and rage thrown into a ring, constantly colliding despite our efforts to avoid each other. And when we do crash, it’s a cataclysmic explosion worse than either of us could imagine.

That moment when two burning stars finally crash, but it’s expected, scientists saw it coming after years of study. They gave us a decade, said we’ll be okay for a while, but expected our implosion after all the tension. It’s been a long time coming but it hurts more when it finally happens.

Your rage burns and leaves marks onto my skin, next to the ones where you used to love me, and they look the same and I can’t distinguish them. But you have the same marks as me so what are we now? We gained nothing from this, no new star or planet born from this, so what now?

We’re just two crashed cars, obviously on flames, waiting for someone to come to our rescue. But is that all we are? Are we just wreckage waiting for rescue? The car may be salvageable, but what about us? Will we come out from this unscathed? Will we be okay? Will you still love me, even if you couldn’t do this anymore?

Grocery List

Remember to get raw meat—the kind that resembles the palms of your hands before they turn into angry fists; also, get tomatoes, you’ll know it’s good when it’s as red as your face like when you’re about to burst out of frustration; bite your own tongue, nobody believes a girl your age, instead, pick up some cow tongue for tonight’s curry; leave your heart to rest at home, people become greedy and grabby over things that aren’t theirs; grab milk, skip the skim, you’re not here to impress anyone; get this brand of chai masala, the one that impresses a man, but not enough to make him stay; skip the clothing store; find a salwar kameez cut from the same cloth as you and me, it’s cheaper that way; make sure you grab a newspaper on your way back; don’t stay out too late, it gets dangerous; have you heard about the mother who intentionally broke her daughter’s leg to save her? no amma, and please don’t do that to me, I promise I'll come home to you every night, just like I always do, I have nowhere else to go; only buy this particular brand of sugar, it’s sweet enough to satisfy a man’s desires yet respectful enough to safeguard a woman’s integrity; your split ends need attention; get bhringaraja oil, almond oil, and alma oil—specifically Dabur Vatika, not Parachute, that’s what you’ll need to grow hair long enough to keep you warm on cold nights, when there’s nobody to hold you; no need for jasmine perfumes; bottle your sadness into a scent, like the salty oceans out front; pick up some basmati rice; it’s just around the corner from the mishti store—what, you don’t know where it is? no, ma, there’s nothing there, the mishti store hasn’t been around for years; there was one, at least when I was younger; it must have been Pakistan that razed it to the ground; flames would seep from ruptured points and exit wounds on the streets as I made my way home from school; did you know they would sell rasgulla and rajbhog for a couple hundred taka? just like the amount your parents sold you off? Was it love then?; Mamoni, if it’s love that you’re looking for, you won’t find it for sale anywhere, true love only exists in poetry and books; can’t I buy books and read it out loud enough times until it becomes real enough for me to hold it in my hands?; mark off the food mold at the top of the list; it seems like it’s already shaped you into the woman you needed to become; don’t flash anger on me; anger is what a man exhibits when feeling insecure; are you any less than a man? no, amma, but sometimes I feel lesser than the lizards that crawl out inbetween the cracks of our walls at night; it’s not cruel; our ammas make us do this too, turning us into constant wars in our minds with no clear sight of the goal and out of reach; don’t look too deeply into the man with kajal under his eyes, dressed in a black kurti, even if he greets you with his hands down; he’s not the type to pen dramatic shayaris for you during arguments; he’s fluent only in Hindi, can’t even read Sanskrit, while you effortlessly weave poetry in Bengali, Hindi, Arabic, and hold onto the little Urdu you know, only because I raised you that way; he won’t opt for rickshaws or autos when you can easily walk the 8-minute distance to the grocery store; he’ll buy you the saris; he’ll buy you the jhumkas; he’ll even buy you the mendhi but won’t learn how to apply it for you; he won’t treat you to pani puri from the street vendor outside or let you coax the older bhai to add more chili powder to the mysterious liquid that’ll most definitely give you food poisoning; he won’t center your bindi for you; won’t allow you to adjust the collar of his kurti; doesn’t even consider offering you the last samosa; he’s a man raised among girls who were taught that their thoughts speak louder than words, and sometimes, not to speak at all; he won’t let you experience the freedom you have with me; don’t even entertain the idea of leaving me; oh, and one last thing, don’t forget to wear that dupatta; you always forget; sometimes, I think you do it deliberately to upset me