The Deep End extract

My toes sank into the warm sand. I wiggled them in deeper, walking toward the fierce body of water ahead. The sand became cold and wet. Wind blew against my face; echoes of the past whispering in my ears. I brushed my hair aside and started to move towards the ultramarine waves. My family called to me as I neared the sea. Shouts of ‘what are you doing,’ ‘come back,’ ‘it’s too dangerous’ were heard spreading in the wind, but I kept going. Waves tickled my feet as I wandered deeper and deeper. The sand beneath my feet vanished and I was paddling. The sea enveloped me. Waves struck me violently. I was deep enough. I stopped paddling.

*

A sea of gold and red hung from my body and lights flashed in my eyes. I looked down, my heavily mascaraed eyelashes trembling slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I peered at my groom. He was a few years older; broad shoulders, a firm mouth and ruggedly bearded. He was grinning at our families’ attention, I was grimacing at it. A tear fell out of my eye, crawling down my made-up cheek.
The wedding ended. I was made to walk alongside Anwar, my husband, just as I was made to accept his proposal. I had no choice; my family’s wishes had always mattered more than mine. That was how it happened in our social circle. I didn’t know how I felt about it. True, I hadn’t found anyone. But I had never wanted it to be like this.

*

I was sitting on my marriage bed; it was decorated with soft, blushing rose petals. I leaned against the canopy, watching Anwar walk in. He took off his coat and my heartbeat raced. He sat down beside me, touching my cheek gently. He took his hand away; his fingers were wet. I looked at him anxiously, sending him the message that I wasn’t ready for this tonight. Thankfully, he backed away.
An hour later we lay in bed beside each other. I stared at the ceiling.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. I could see him turn. He looked at me, puzzled. Stroked my hair with his fingers.
‘There’s nothing to apologise for. It’s natural to be scared. Let’s sleep.’

*

I was lying in bed, my palm on my stomach, making squiggly lines on the ceiling with my mind. Anwar was at the office. I was here. I always seemed to be here.
A piercing cry interrupted my thoughts. I tried to shut it out. But it went on and on. Louder and louder. I clenched my fist. The baby was always crying. Har waqt. And Anwar was never here. I was. I had to be.

I sat on Primrose, my curves picking at the gripping grazed ground with twinkling red flowing around me. Creation stretched itself out in front of me; lazing and bustling, soaking and striking, still and rushing. Bottles of liquid poison tipping down throats, cylinders of unearthly smoke pressed against lips of paled pink, wrestling the cobalt of cloudless. Destroying the verdant that rolled below.
I lay back whispering too low for you to hear. Softly begging to unearth the limbs that cling you to the toxic dimples of sand, and instead reach out towards electric titbits bouncing on roaring waves of cotton that extend ruthlessly. You continue watching, never embracing. I know, so do I. We sit among bright magic tricks every day, that hold clouds surfing on fluent rays, turning around the hypnotic gold that is broken only by a whizzing that cannot be replicated. We sit amongst it, only deepening shadows fleeting soundlessly in the everlasting orange that turns circles of rebellious pink shaded gold blinding white around us. We have our place amongst it but all we do is press flash.

No more

My wings continue rolling into a deep abyss, chipping away bit by bit, their glow dimming ever so slightly as they crumble from the mountains of my back that curve inward and outward when I pull myself towards the twinkling above, but also when I bury myself inside dry earth.
They flutter rapidly, rustling in the tornado created by the twirls of your index finger round and round and round until it becomes crisp delicate air that carries me off to a land unknown.
They fall like suckling fireflies, drop by drop, bright and vibrant until they are ripped out like threads unraveling from the cushion that we wrestled with. My skin is ruby with each extracted vein lying dully in your fingers. I'm bare and there are no more threads left for you to pull anymore.

Words on the tube

This twisting and turning
deafening,

Tracks that curve,
Into
every glistening edge

Piercing tires
dragging us along

Pounding,
Back and forth
Back and forth

Run
2 minutes
Stop,
A minute
Maybe more

Run,
Again

Perfectly desi?

I am not

a piece of glass

ready to be shined and polished

prepared to be shown around

picked and admired

until the next customer chooses

I am not 

a traditional woman

silent and bashful

excited about recipes and bells

one that speaks only when spoken to

I am not 

perfect

perfectly desi, if that's what you mean

I am

mapping my future according to

my whims and choices,

kind, and determined 

to be the best I can be

I am

what I want to be

what women want to be

what every woman strives to be

before you try to strap us

in your version of perfect glass

Unfortunately for you

I will always be

What I want to be