Saturday Sonnets: Moments with Ami ذوق نَظّارَہ
On those Saturday mornings when Ami has the day off, I cherish our breakfasts together, even as someone in his late 30s. There's an undeniable magic to these mornings that has imprinted itself upon my very soul. My memories of these times play out like an intimate dance, textured by the sensations of bare feet rushing down the stairs, pressing onto plush rugs and thick carpets.
The atmosphere is further punctuated by the distant but ever-present recitation of Al-Baqarah from the Qur’an, a familiar hum that’s always there, like the heartbeat of the house. Simultaneously, light grapples with the clouds, trying to shine through, their duel occasionally interrupted by the chattering of magpies in our back garden.
Entering the kitchen, I'm greeted by the lingering scent of spices—fragrances that tell tales of faraway lands, some even a mystery to humankind. Ami and I, we have this unspoken pact. She, too, hurries downstairs, no doubt in anticipation of the morning ritual. The air between us thrums with an unspoken understanding as we both set about our respective tasks. We never actually agree aloud to meet for breakfast; it’s just an intrinsic part of our bond. A silent, cherished promise.
Observers might mistakenly think that we congregate out of a lack of other engagements. But what we have is an expression of love, born out of mutual understanding and circumstance. I grew up watching Ami navigate life’s twists and turns, mainly on her own after my father's departure. Her life, resplendent in its simplicity, has always mirrored mine in some ways. Alone, yet not lonely, especially in each other's company.
Our breakfast preparation is a harmonious ballet of sorts. As Ami artfully adds cardamom, fennel seeds, and jaggery to her chai, stirring in a mix of loose tea and a teabag, I set up my moka pot, eager for that first sip of morning coffee. Toasting slices of bread on the very stove we use to make chapattis adds another layer to our olfactory experience. The tantalizing aroma of wheat merging with melted butter fills the kitchen, dancing gracefully with the contrasting notes of chai and coffee.
Moments later, I catch a glimpse of Ami as she brushes her hair. Once lush and full-bodied, her hair told stories of vigour and youth. I still remember its fragrant notes, the heavy strands cascading down, occasionally resting against her kameez – sometimes plain, sometimes floral, sometimes embellished. But over the years, the volume has dwindled, perhaps due to the relentless march of time. Yet, the love, the memories, the rituals, they remain, eternal in their essence, a testament to the bond between a mother and son.