My mother when she is angry will say nothing. Her rage walks around the room stormily until we must open the windows to let it out.
It’s the Miajaan ki jaath we whisper.
(I have it too. That streak of fire in the blood. A trace of Pathan that lifts to the surface every so often).
Mine is mixed with my father’s softness, my abbajaan’s quietness, the tenderness of men who have loved too much.
They both swirl in me, fire and water, fire and water until I am melting and moulding and burning all at once. I am forgiving and remembering and at peace and in pain. It makes me restless. Exhausted.
I am called names for this. I am accused of being insincere. Fickle. Volatile.
I am called everything except what I am.
My parent’s child.
I forgot how much I enjoy your writing