Everything is a scintillating gold: my coat, my watch, the day outside. Music from the rows of bangles adorning my sisters’ arms rings in my ears. But, there’s no tinkle on Ammi’s wrists, no gold sequins on her pastel dupatta.
Waiters wear starched turbans, and banquet tables release aromas, but, I have no appetite.
All eyes are on me. I say “Qubool Hai” when asked the third time. Congratulations echo in the hall. Ammi dabs her eyes and smiles. Elders bless me, but none of the hands carry the same weight and warmth as your palm on my head, my Abba.
What a beautiful story, full of sights and senses. And very moving. Lovely to see a story that connects with my own background, too.
refreshing voice
Evocative, sad, much left untold in this beautiful vignette.
So much depth! Lovely:)
This was such a bitter sweet story. Beautifully told, poetic and nostalgic. This made me miss my own Abba 🙂