Winning Sehri tales of Ramadan, day 25
Top entities for the prompt ‘Away’, by popular vote.
Writer: Afrida Nurain
- Just stay away from me.
- Why? Why are you behaving like this?
- I don't want to be with you anymore, can't you realize?
- Okay, calm down! May I know what's the trouble?
- No, you may not!
- This is not right. You're acting like a bizarre!
- Oh really?
- Yes, you are!
- Think whatever you want, I don't care.
- But I do. I care about you.
- Put a sock in it, will you?
- I want clarification. You have to give an explicit reason.
- I'm not bound to say.
- You know, you're such a selfish?
- How dare you?
- Stop! Let me finish! I put oil in you for your better growth. I try the best shampoo to remove your dirt. I use conditioner to make you smoother. I solely impose myself on you, don't I?
- I don't tell you to do so, do I?
- So what about the investment that I've made? The henna, fenugreek, yoghurt and the other stuff?
- Get off my back!
- Please, for God's sake! Be with me!
- Talk to the hand.
Every day my hair brushes my words away in this way. Hair fall is the heftiest hassles.
Writer: Tanim Ud Dowlah
Priya loved to dress up, parting her long black locks in the middle, she thought she looked like Parvati from Devdas or that’s what her friend Roma put in her head. The other girls that lived with her were envious of her beauty. They accused her of dousing herself with skin whitening cream but Priya got her smooth milky skin from Amma. She tried not to think of Amma, the very thought puts a lump in her throat and she looked too beautiful to ruin her hard work.
“What’s taking you so long? You wouldn’t want to piss off Guru Maa today”, said Roma peeking into the room.
“Oh my, you look like a Princess, don’t forget about us when you run off with your Prince”, teased Roma. Priya blushed. She knew better than to dream of such things, but always fantasized a different life.
Today was the first time Priya scoped out an event and that of the birth of a newborn. People are usually kinder and more hospitable during this time and welcome the blessings of Hijras. Priya loved children, they didn’t make snide remarks or hurl abuses. To them she was like any other woman. As she made her way to the event with her sisters, she felt confident in her mother’s bright red Sari, the last tangible memory of her previous life. She felt like the woman she always wanted to be when she wore it, a woman with lofty dreams away from here.
Writer: Tareq Adnan
I like palm trees. Always have. Absolutely despise dates though. At this point in time, I would even venture to say that a palm is my favorite type of tree. Followed closely by the deshi bot gaach and then by the unreal anime-esque cherry blossoms. Every now and then an errant wisteria will muscle it’s way in and try to impress me with its many purpled canopy. I find them to be too forward. The autumn blazes and fall foliages I can do without. The bright gingkos and the far too loud rhododendrons can all shuffle over.
It’s the palm for me.
Possibly because they offer very little in terms of real shade, like brown bread knives slicing into the sky. You can’t really find much comfort in their scaled, serrated trunks. Their leaves and spines are sometimes sharp, lined with spiky tines. Even the dates— when they’re red and at their most aesthetically pleasing and appetizing, are basically inedible. Only when they shrivel up and become vaguely chitinous, are dates sweet.
It’s not a very accommodating tree. I imagine if triffids ever did make the trek over from the land of fiction, they would look like palm trees.
Every time I see one, I’m so glad I got away.