SHEHRBANO NAQVI

Grieving is a Privilege 

i am my dadi’s namesake learning to spell 

شہربانو from the etching on her tombstone

as baba washed the marble with wrinkled 

hands	     his sisters spread a bed of roses

over what used to be their mother’s

embrace and my eldest uncle lit incense 

so the sandalwood cemented itself as the scent 
of a grandmother who never held me

every few months i would sit by her side 
as all eight children returned from their pockets

of the world to orbit around their mother 
and her resting place     palms open like a bedtime

storybook catching the whispers of our prayers 
recited in a language none of us even speak

over the years these rituals became bullet 
points on to-do lists as dadi passed her 30th 

death anniversary and her brother 

and cousins and a beloved grandson


all joined her in another realm
leaving behind more roses


to plant and tombstones to wash and prayers 
to recite    each loss marked on the calendar 


as a reminder to return to duties that seem 
like chores her children forgot to complete


but lately scrolling through the rising death 

tolls has engraved the images of weeping 

sons      no more than thirteen yet cradling
dying mothers and begging for help

to remove the beds of rubble crushing
them to sleep     wash their burnt skin 

with trembling hands and find a moment 

of respite to pray for their souls 


before the next bomb goes off

گھر گھر (ghar-ghar / playing house)


maybe.



maybe there is another home for us. a home a lot like this one but instead of a rich blue canopy above it’s a deep glistening golden, like fresh marmalade generously spread over so that every thunderstorm is a saccharine shower.



where grass grows higher than skyscrapers so children run barefoot in the summer between their towering emerald blades, singing to the tune of the wind out loud, and rivers always go upstream because this world doesn’t know the word ‘down’.



a home where stars sizzle out loud instead of shining bright and the sun sings itself to rest every night and the moon toots his own horn and moms and dads walk with their hands flat on the ground, and on the stoop of a six-dimensional house shaded by tall grass blades from the sugary rain, maybe in this world you aren’t underground, but sitting on this stoop with me as I rest my pig-tailed head on your dainty shoulders and we breathe quietly. maybe that home still feels familiar because in our home here the sun has gone down too early and stars are clouded with confusion and the grass around your tombstone has somehow died already.



but maybe there’s another home for us.