I. Brief Impressions of Satellite Sorrow

-five-

The Monday portrait of my mother went something like this - sat at the dining table, writing Bangla into a notebook and then making me copy the lines. A tattered Bangla textbook she sometimes perused, trying to interest me in the stories, her patience.

These are memories I have to avoid. They break my mind. Memories can be dangerous because now, no one can remember them with me. My brothers were too little.

The blocky, perfect handwriting, every letter evenly sized, every word evenly spaced. She never needed to cross things out. If I had a facility for magic, I could draw you her hands.

But I mustn't remember.

The Tuesday portrait of my mother went something like this - sat in my bedroom, telling me she would come to the PT meeting. Asking me how to pronounce Mrs. Kothare's name; fretting about her accent.

The cabinet on the right where she kept her makeup. The little pouch with all her lipstick; her favorite color.

I mustn't remember.

The Wednesday portrait of my mother went something like this - sat in the living room, by the little table with the phone. The phone calls with Nani, her anger, her sadness.

I know how she got that scar on her upper arm.

But I mustn't remember.

The Thursday portrait of my mother went something like this - sat in the kitchen, examining my skinned knees. Her voice, asking me if I'm okay.

But I'm okay. I'm always okay.

I can't recall her voice.

I'm okay.

by Tareq Adnan

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‘Shadow’: Sehri Tales selections, Day 4

II.

I remember learning the holy Quran from Wasima Khala.

"Say, Aleef, baa, thaaa", she would utter.

"Aleef, baa, saa", I would repeat after her.

She'd correct me, "Thaa. Not saa. Use your tongue", pointing to her tongue between her teeth.

I remember the thick glasses she used to wear and the gray hair peeking through her cotton hijab.

I remember being Wasima Khala's most favorite student and Bhaiya being the most annoying one.

I remember her carefully making Quran bookmarks out of wedding cards and giving me extra bookmarks slyly.

I remember her reciting surahs and telling me stories of Prophet Musa (AS), Prophet Isa (AS) and Prophet Muhammad (SWS).

I remember her dreaming about going to the Qaba, to which the 10-year-old me said, "Okay, I'll take you there someday".

I remember the red bedsheet we used to sit on while reading the Quran. The bedsheet with big yellow sunflowers painted on it. After we finished learning the Quran, she kept it to her.

I remember the phone call that bore her death news 5 years later. I remember the same red bedsheet, wrapped around her dead body.

I remember sobbing my eyes out in front of the 3 or 4 relatives she had.

Fast forward to today,

I remember all this sitting in front of the Qaba. I've just finished my Tawaf that I performed on behalf of Wasima Khala. I open my Quran and start reciting. This time I use my tongue and pronounce, "Thaa".

by Sara Rashid 

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‘Middle’: Sehri Tales selections, Day 3

III.

"Do flowers go to heaven when they die?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But do we remember the flowers once they die?"

"I, uh, I don't know."

"We do, actually. We specifically remember the flowers that wither away inside the pages of our secret diaries, or the ones that get crushed beneath our feet."

"So, we only remember the flowers that go through a tragedy?"

"Yes."

"Is it the same for us?"

"Maybe."

by Aqueb Safwan Jaser 

Today's Sehri Tales selections were made by Sister Library.