tattered clothes
syeda z. hamdani
I see her on my wide-screen tv,
see the story through her bloodshot eyes:
“The thick needle pokes my thumb,
red droplets trickle away
I tear my tattered shawl and wrap the thin strip on my thumb
Whack! Whack!
I grab my head and see a wrinkled hand lift away the leather sandal,
leaving bumps
that swell as big as oranges
“Hurry, finish this dress, or no lentils for you today,”
she croaks, making a shaky fist,
And limps outside, coughing
I put by head against the tent,
but find no support
the red ants climb on my frozen toes
I can not hold back any more—
Burning tears fall on my mud-stained dress,
my only dress
Outside, Thunder roars its mighty laugh
I hear
Men speaking French, Turkish, English
They lift debris with Japanese cranes
“Shabaash, good,” says a breaded man
Little girls wait, clutching handmade rag dolls
Like them, I have no where to go
My husband, my sar taj is gone
My little prince and princess breathe no more
The Big Rumble came
Made me collapse and drop the ripe mangoes in my hand
I ran, fell, ran some more towards home
Ignoring voices that said, “Stay away”
The ground cracked into a million pieces,
I stopped
I saw nothing but
my mud-brick home flattened like a sand dune
I dug away the dirt with my shaky hands
Hoping, praying through tiny tears
to see hearts beating
But I found none,
Except a gray-haired woman's heart pumping
At the hospital, I gave her my bed
Now I drink water that gives me stomach aches,
Yet she has clean water
I eat mushy lentils,
she takes the chicken
I sleep, shivering, on the dirt floor,
she has a snug sleeping bag
I remember the stench
Of bodies decaying,
She adorns her eyes with surma
and clutches a few rupees
“If only you know reading and writing,
you be a nurse or doctor,
make money”
Yes, if I had money
I could drink the liquid of hope
feed myself dignity,
wear clothes of honor,
and sleep in peace
Instead, I have sneers from this lady,
my mother-in-law,
who says I am her curse
“My son should be here, not you,
Does she know I wish so too?”
I turn off the tv,
look at my heated home,
the family portrait with six smiling faces
the velour dresses,
the canopy beds
I pull out the dollar bills set aside for Eid
And put them in an envelope with an international stamp
For my new friend
about the author
Syeda is a freelancer, writing on a variety of topics, including science
and health, as well as creative nonfiction. She is also a proofreader
and copy editor.
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