Published by Khabar Magazine on 05/01/2021
“What are you doing, Ammi?” I call my mother on a May Sunday morning. My husband, Suhail, is still sleeping. I glance at the clock—it’s 8:00 am, that’s 5:30 pm for Ammi in India.
“Nothing, beti. Just finished my namaz. Now in the courtyard for some air. Green mangoes on Mrs. Gupta’s tree are swaying in the breeze.”
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this brought back so many memories, I cried when the narrator’s pickle jar is thrown away. This line :
“I want to say it’s not a bomb or missile. Not opium or cocaine. It’s a mother’s love—simmered in the sun, preserved, and packed for a daughter who lives 13,000 kilometers away.”