#modelingforanumsartproject

[unearthlyperennial]

|August 1, 2017| Untouched Monsoon. I remember being 5 years old, vacationing in Pakistan with my family during the hottest season. The first, and only, time I visited. I recall when my cousin would take the train from his assigned army base to my Khala’s home, as a friendly welcome, I would jump onto his back as soon as he walked through the door. One time, he brought back gifts for me and my sisters. Customized shimmery glass bangles, embellished with our names. I shoved them over my fists and onto my scrawny arms. I leafed through the set. Mine read: A-y-s-h-a. Or maybe it was A-y-e-s-h-a. I don’t remember if he knew how to spell my name. I ran around with my adorned arms held up in front of me, vigilant of the glass chooriyan on my wrists. I remember being told not to jump up and down, but since I was a hyper little monkey-child, I didn’t listen. One shattered on the floor...oh, so fragile they were. Didn’t expect that. Headstrong and stubborn, I believed it wouldn’t happen again. So I kept playing obstinately and recklessly. And another fell. But I jumped again on the charpai, and another broke. One by one, I lost all my chooriyan. Growing up in America was something like that. I thought I had enough of Pakistan inside of me to carry my roots throughout my lifetime, until of course I would move to my motherland, a land I thought was my own. But I lost my language, I lost my family, I lost large pieces of my culture and tradition, and the history of my ancestors became a faraway long-lost daydream, or nightmare. Sixteen years have passed in whimsical hopes and innocent fantasies. And I haven’t been back since. — I never saw Pakistan again, but I carry around shards with me wherever I go. -a.a