Lost (Imaginary Homelands)

Nida Fazili 

I only understand my native tongue 

when my parents speak it. 

My relatives look to me expectantly

Sometimes, words return to me 

In between memory and forgetfulness 

It’s been sixteen years —

I don’t know when I’ll return 

I don’t know my grandparents’ stories 

What kind of life do my cousins lead? 

I falter between each sentence break 

Do you complete all of your prayers?

Yes.

I pray for you everyday. I make dua’a. 

Thank you. 

In the face of their earnestness,

my half-knowingness is not enough 

My father corrects my pronunciation;

I correct his 

I haven’t picnicked in the Garden of Joy

or been horseback riding in 

the Meadow of Flowers

I haven’t seen the vegetable 

markets on the Dal Lake:

the shikaras heavy with the weight 

of saffron, lotus stem, and eggplant

I’ve only been to Kashmir once

but I love to hear it told: 

How the springs filled with water,

and the water flowed over stone ramps 

The past that they yearn for 

is lost within me.