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Sehri Tales 2020 - May 15

  • Published at 07:21 am May 16th, 2020
sehri tales

Winning Sehri tales of Ramadan, day 21

Top entities for the prompt ‘Blur’, by popular vote.

Writer: Muneeba Fakhrul

He is unabashedly bipolar, you conclude.

One minute, he's pulling your hair & slapping you so hard, you see stars -

The next, he pampers you with a million kisses & flowers.

The man is a walking conundrum;

With him, the lines are always blurred.

You've always wondered: is he your physically abusive husband or your darling lover?

𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩, you grimly decide.

If you can love a violent abuser, I suppose you can love anyone.

Writer: Afrida Nurain

Whenever I think about my father,

My eyes start to blur.

Yet it's my firm belief,

That we are not that far.

We are not that far.

Though I don't know why,

My eyes become teary.

It's about four years,

The wound doesn't vary!

Isn't it scary?

It makes me worry,

How can we uphold!

Without your presence at the sehri?

Without you the iftar?

Abruptly a gentle waft sets forth,

That we are not that far.

We are not that far.

Writer: Tareq Adnan

-When Will They Find Us Here?-

My grandmother died in the middle of an English class. Some interminable lecture; a professor who had asked me to write in front of her because she was skeptical that I could write; my attention wavering somewhere between inattention and disdain; my mother calling me over and over; the creeping sensation that something was wrong.

Premonitions are often derided but that day, I knew. Who’s dead?

My grandmother was an extraordinary woman, capable of shouting darkness into darkness; making the night itself cower and stay away. She had to be; she’d been left behind by a dead husband. Her excellence was a quality completely untempered.

I remember walking out of class, not shellshocked or sad or even numb. In fact I did feel; there was profound relief. I was taking a week away from a professor who had seesawed into trying to convince me into an English major. I came home and tried to muster some measure of a reaction. Not even my memory complied, managing only to bring up blurry images of the last time I had seen my Nani. The croaking, crackling voice, the last few bits of advice before I flew far away.

Try to be kind. That was it, that was all she asked of me.

I don’t know, it was an obvious expression of worry and affection but there was something so caring in it. Like she was telling me that it’s okay, she’d stay with me, with us, with everyone who’s been left behind.

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