Missed Con­nec­tions

Room Magazine - - CONTENTS - AMAL RANA

Karachi, lives in my bones whis­per­ing mem­o­ries ver­te­brae to ulna, my fin­gers reach to de­tan­gle her hu­mid­ity from my hair, feel­ing for mois­ture no longer there.

On Juma,

I dream a burst­ing ex­trav­a­gance of puris steam­ing from the bazaar, a car­damom-scented moun­tain of suji ka halwa fried gold, cousins fight­ing for the prized malai on top of the milk.

In all the places we can never call home, I search for aban­doned charpais cham­beli ke phool, drink rose-scented Rooh Afza to the bot­tom of tin glasses, look for re­flec­tions of a larki in torn jeans and a kurta who may once have been me.

Karachi,

I call her long dis­tance, the line scratchy with di­as­pora and missed con­nec­tions.

She flips back her thick, black hair, laughs at me, says:

“Ev­ery­thing has changed, next time, just text.”

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