We live in a place for years and not document it's streets, the culture, the food, the people, their ideologies
the history and the art
the scents and the seas
the warmth in the breeze
and on departure we wish to soak all of it in,
we creep around the pillars,
we stop and stare at the land like it's gold
with so much sand it glitters,
we drench our selves in scents, in ouds and in lobans,
we smell more like the city than ourselves
and I think that's the thing about departures,
they uproot our soul and plant seeds of treasuring, of longing and memories.
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Slow, she wakes up on a cold winter morning, wrapped in white sheets and light of a holy day untying her oiled braids ...
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Meet Reshma (like silk), my mother's sister, my khala. I never got the opportunity to meet her because she passed away at an early age o...
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