Seven to Seventeen

I’m seven,

I’m seven and it’s Sindhi new year and I'm sitting silently to the side in the solace of our pooja room’s stone floor tiles. Legs folded, hair covered, head bowed down as the steady murmur of a sweet song of praise escapes swiftly from my mother’s lips in a manner of a sigh. Aash Vandi Gur To Dar Aaye, Tum Bin Thour Na Kayee Toon Har Data, Toon Har Mata, Meri Aash Pujayanee. A song written in a book I’ve never read, in a script I don’t recognize, in a language I barely understand. When my dad looks over at me, he chuckles quietly at my inability to sing along vividly and whispers almost instantly “itthe hi sab khatm thi vendo, vadi thi kare ee sab kandiya cha?” “This is where it all ends, will you do all this when you grow older?” I’m seven, I sit silently speculating on what sort of songs I will need to learn to sing to ensure that my culture stays alive.

I’m thirteen,

I'm thirteen, and I'm reminded of my Nani. My Nani, in her two storey apartment down Ashok Nagar street. She would always tie a rope to a bucket and push that bucket down her balcony when she wanted to pass things down and I like to imagine that’s how she passed down all the pieces of our culture to me. Each piece, representing some habits or beliefs or some recipes of grief but if the effects of all those pieces combined remain bittersweet on my heartbeat, tell me please, is it something that I must purge out and release or something for me to inherently keep?

Now I’m seventeen,

I'm seventeen sitting not so silently, sensing that things are less simple than they seem. So I let myself pick and choose between the pieces I receive and ask myself what I'd like to throw out and what I'd like to keep.

So, what do I like?

I like oiling my hair every Sunday, not eating chicken on Mondays and Thursdays, the spices in my food, the languages I speak, the saris, the lehengas, my salwar kameez. I like watching IPL with papa on the couch, eating khakda and bhujia ‘til I fill myself up, the accent on my tongue, kulfi under the sun, and the bright blue plates reserved for special loved ones.

But I like most the way we show love in implicit ways: returning borrowed containers with cookies inside, a bowl of fruit to calm our minds, leaving extra food in the pain when I said I didn't want some, communicating through stories when all else feels numb.

But those stories are sometimes what don't seem fun when they're told to you in your youth in an effort to keep you mum.

So, you learn a few things. Among others, you learn to hide pads around in newspapers in your own home, you learn to dress in a way that retains your honor, you learn to shut up when your uncle throws glass cups on the floor and you learn, as a young girl, that your life is never truly your own.

I'm 17,

I'm 17, saying to you that stories must sieved through because while some stories are sweet enough to be savored, some of them you'll never hear me repeat.