Please Take Me Home
By Nazaneen Kaliwal
Please Take Me Home
A map may show its silhouette to be a clenched fist,
but the hearts of its inhabitants remain irrevocably open,
every chamber unhinged.
Our precious Watan awaits us,
where the reds of the handwoven rugs still pale in comparison
to the rich colour flowing down your neck when you first see me
wearing a wine coloured dress with gold embroidery,
and my mother's cherished anklets singing with my every step.
I have been homesick
with a longing for a place my mind cannot even recall,
but my heart has memorized its ethereal beauty.
The Home we both yearn for.
Please take me there.
To the fragrant fields our ancestors tended to with care,
where rows of poppies and fresh roses graced tired eyes and blistered fingers,
and summer peonies and lilies decorated vases indoors.
Please take me there. Please take me Home
to the clear skies and even clearer waters of the darya of Kabul
where my brothers once spilled young blood from their index fingers
with the glass-coated strings of colourful kites perched atop canopies.
Please take me there. Please take me Home
to the swing my father made just for me
where I spent hours awaiting his return, kicking up the dust with bare feet,
with bangles adorning my wrists, and henna painting my palms a charred red.
Please take me there. Please take me Home
To the tulip gardens of Herat and the mountains of Hindu Kush
where doe-eyed lovers find their eyes brimmed with tears
from the beauty that resembles your quaint birthplace.
Please take me there. Please take me Home
to the crowded bazars between mud houses
where the prices of freshly baked naan and mitaye are haggled over,
in crammed stalls with dried green tea leaves and cardamom seeds.
Please take me there. Please take me Home
to the outdoor gatherings
beneath a canvas of sleepless stars
where the soft music of the dohl, rubab and harmonium tell the tale
of a shy romance budding between two sea-bound souls.
Please take me there. Please take me Home
to native soil beneath a poplar tree
where I lower my gaze before you,
where you whisper how endearing you find this,
where we hum a naghma:
“Zama de meene lewaniya, de sta yema ze.”
Oh my crazed lover, I am yours.
Please take me there.
Please take me Home.
Daybreak
There will be days where it seems
there will never be a shortage of people to mourn,
where nostalgia hangs from the sternum
like a noose,
and love dangles at the end of it,
where hope is a pair of shackles around the lungs,
and shortened breaths are punishment for misplaced trust.
It may seem, the melancholy you hold onto
will always want to share the bed with you,
and you'll sleep with it whimpering against your legs,
like a child afraid of losing her favourite blanket,
or a fawn that lost her mother and imprinted on heartache.
When the world is tired of your shoulders,
as though it has already memorized your skin there,
and it now prefers to travel down your collarbone,
digging into novel flesh,
clawing against porcelain ribs,
snuggling into your chest,
curling around your heart,
the way a serpent curls around its prey,
may you remember then:
The world is only as heavy as your thoughts.
Its darkness is only as warm as you are cold.
Shift the balance, and lean towards the light.
Tip toe if you must,
but let the weight of the world fall off of you,
if only for once.
There will be days where the child can rest
without her blanket,
and the fawn will be wise enough
to wander off into a forest.
There will be just as many nights
where we wonder why we ever mourned at all,
where happiness is less frightening,
and sorrow loses its allure.
We'll wait for those nights.
Let's be patient with these days.
My Father’s Home
My plaar jan wears a pakol,
the warm colour of caramel,
and sunlight does little
to further soften his liquid eyes.
Around his shoulders, he wraps his tsader,
and his worn-down tsapleh
are acquainted with his every blister.
His skin smells of the once lush baghs of Kabul,
of rose petals and jasmine flowers,
of poppy seeds and marigolds.
His veins are lapis lazulis,
and his blood is precious ruby
that decorate his desert hands.
As he sips his morning chai,
he recites in melodious Pakhto
a ghazal that tells the tale of besotted lovers
timidly seeking one another.
His unsteady voice of yearning,
his gentle smile amidst mourning,
his grey eyes of homesickness,
to this all, I bear lone witness.
I would not dare expect him to replace
his pakol for your tophat,
his tsader for your wool coat,
his tsapleh for your loafers,
his chai for your black coffee.
These would not feel like home for his musafir heart.
My plaar jan tells me about his Home.
A place where the mountain tops hold more secrets
than the set of lips that greet him in the morning.
A place with gardens that remain green year round,
with more roses than thorns
taking up space in the ground.
A place where shopkeepers of street bazaars
feel more like brothers and sisters than they do strangers.
A place where colourful kites by the dozens soar the skies,
and young children run after them,
with hope in their eyes.
He tells me about his Home,
not how it is today, but the way he remembers it,
from a few decades ago.
One day I want to tell him,
Plaar jan, you can leave aside
your decades' old fear and worry.
Look now, zamong zeba watan,
your graan Afghanistan, is finally free.
Translations
Watan – Country
Mitaye – Sweets
Musafir – Traveler
Plaar jan – Dear father
Pakol – Round-topped cap
Tsader – Shawl
Tsapleh – Slippers
Bagh – Garden
Chai – Tea
Ghazal – Couplet
Zamong zeba watan – Our beautiful country
Graan - Dear
About: Inspired by her father, Afghan poet Sultan Jan Kaliwal, Nazaneen has been writing poetry for over a decade. A University of Toronto alumnus currently working in the field of neuroscience research, she aspires to continue writing poetry as a means of introspection.
Keep in touch with Nazaneen Kaliwal
Instagram @nazaneenwrites
Cover Image by Sana Saidi