i wrote, therefore i was

okay so i wrote something! a scene, that's all. a little sketch. it felt so good. took it to the writer's group, got a couple of suggestions. since i never write anything and i barely ever blog (at least compared to koonj) i'm gonna post it here. it's not forever long, i don't think. well, i'll see what it looks like.

meanwhile, i have a question for all da mommaz out there: why is it that once you have changed a poopy diaper, no matter if you wash the baby, change the clothes, lotion him up, wash your hands, and everything, two hours later you are still getting whiffs of poop? it just doesn't go away! i don't understand it! there's no poop in his diaper or anywhere on him or me but i still smell it! aaah!!

okay here's my scene. she is a synesthete, by the way, that was my crazy idea. and for those who actually read this blog, i used my dad's childhood story which i wrote about a month or two back...

Mariam drooped her head slowly, slowly to the crook of her elbow, letting the sharp edge of her straight-cut hair slice gently into the scratched desk. She imagined she could hear the whisper-thin sound, each strand cutting into the soft, old wood with her miniscule movements. If she moved slowly enough, imperceptibly enough, Ustad Maqbool might not notice at all –
“Mariam!”
The teacher’s voice barked out, prickly as the stubble shadowing his flabby double chin.
As always, she tasted rain in her mouth, sweet and pungent all at once, when he said her name. She jerked upright, pulling her arms off the desk. If only she could make her body stay stiff – push a board or a rod, maybe Ustad Maqbool’s punitive yardstick, through her spine and just keep it up straight, tape her eyes open, and drift away like that… Ustad Maqbool never asked the girls any questions, anyway, just wanted to make sure they were always listening and attentive.
Mariam began to listen again. This was math class, the most boring of all. At least in Urdu class she could focus on the words, roll them around her tongue in whispers, and when they read Iqbal it was a feast, even if she didn’t understand all the words.
Tundi baad-e-mukhalif se na ghabra, ai auqab
Ye to chalti hai tujhe oonchay orhanay ke liye
[i had a translation here for my writing group but i took it out because i think i'll ask someone for a real translation (volunteer anyone?)... i dunno if i even got the urdu right, feel free to correct that too]
Falcon– that tasted like wood, but living wood, a young tree in spring rich with sap and slow water. But flying, that was gritty, dirty, earthy, like wet sand gloppy with the residue of snails and slugs and insects. And fear tasted somehow sweet, with an unhealthy tang, like an overripe banana.
She tried to keep listening. “Saath,” seven, plus “paanch,” five. But the numbers were just numbers, flat, not even stale, nothing, sounds with no savor. How could she concentrate on something she could see or hear, but not taste at all? Her mouth felt dry. At the end of class she could get some water.
She kept her back straight, but her head drooped again, this time forward, with her chin falling to her collar. Staring resolutely at the patterns of scratches on her desk, she tried to keep her eyes open while thinking of things to keep her awake.
A sunlit pool – a pond at the edge of the village. Walking there with her big brother, past the new photographer’s house, with the grand studio and all the wonderful painted backdrops, pictures of valleys or fields or lavish palaces, where she and her brother and sisters had sat so very still while the old man fiddled with the great camera under his brown, dirty curtain. They slowed as they walked, wanting to see if he was home, taking portraits, but the dusty doorway was closed, the windows still.
At the pond, Mariam and Burhan – the two youngest of eight – reached into a little drawstring cloth bag and rolled into their fingers the little balls of oiled aata Amma had given them from making her morning parathas. Mariam snatched the tiniest balls first – she thought the fish would like those better – and tossed them one by one gently into the water, watching anxiously for any tiny bubbles that might mean a fish had popped up to swallow one. Spring sunlight glinted off the surface, making it difficult to see.
If she were a fish, she could pop up like that to see the sunlight whenever she wanted, then wiggle back down with a flourish of her tail into the cooling water when it got too hot. She imagined as deliciously as she could – her squirmy, scaly body, with the energy to flick and dart through the water even more easily than a bird could fly through the air. Mariam loved this vision – she would picture herself as the fish and say the words to herself: water was like a green plant; fish was sweet and creamy, like rasmalai milk; sunlight was like sucking the plain clean cotton of a new dress.
“Mariam! This is the last time!”
And again, rain washed out her sunlit daydream.