Dear my nameless, faceless Ba

Dear my nameless, faceless Ba,

Can you hear me?

I haven’t spoken to you, or written, in a year. Life feels hard again. What is it about this time of year?

I wish I had known you, your name, your face. In my mind you’re stood still, your sari is catching the breeze. The hem of your skirt licks the dust as you turn away.

I wonder if you’re proud of me. Of my siblings, my cousins, my aunt, my father? What would you make of us? What would you think of this mess we made?

You seem to hold part of that missing piece for me. I’m not sure which piece it is.

I often speak to you, I’ve no idea if you hear me. But it feels good. It feels good to look up into that enormous sky flecked with starlings and I wonder if you once looked up at the same piece of sky when you walked this earth.

– Saffron

Missing home-home

I say I’m missing home-home when I’m missing back-home/motherland/desi. I am longing for the heat, swathes of fabric, the attitude. Something is missing from my life here in England.

Today my Mother hit me with another hard blow. After confiding in her that I wish she would protect us from feeling hurt, she mocked me, humiliated me and sliced with the same contempt she holds for my father. It hurt. A lot. 

And so after feeling the cold slap of her angry words against my face, now I am longing for the warmth of home-home.

Most mornings, part way through my two hour and three train journey, I walk down an incredibly metropolitan street. The sun might be shining through the trees or the grey sky might be closing in. But either way, the dusty image of yellow roads and dirty streets always slips into my mind. And for three minutes or so, I feel as if I am there. Sandles dragging in the dust, the sun beating on my neck.

But I am here. And I quickly snap back to reality. Back to the metropolitan street and back to the harsh smack of my Mother’s contempt for me.