BBA & HBWC Administrator
Andrea Reece
30 Winton Avenue, London, N11 2AT
Tel: 0208 889 1292
Mob: 07807 893369
Email: branford.boase@gmail.com
Press Enquiries
Andrea Reece
Tel: 07807 893369 | Email: branford.boase@gmail.com
I stepped out of the half-broken, rusted car with a long flight still heavy in my bones, waiting for my senses to catch up to the heat. It took about 5 minutes for my brain to clear. That’s when it hit me. It hit me hard. I was in my villiage.
I could smell the sun-baked concrete and fine, grey-brown dust dancing on the slight breeze. You could smell the sewage – to me – it wasn’t a bad smell. To me it was a smell that signalled I was home, with the comforting smell of rich karak chai not far away. I could see the sea of golden land bathing under the sun, and families working hard to keep their stocks alive.
I strolled down the street, entering the house I had left many years ago for a “good future”. It was a house where there once was laughter and children , now replaced by empitiness yet great – and sad – memories . The only life there was now were the workers, quietly carrying my luggage to my room.
I reached my room and looked around, the feeling of comfort wrapping around me like a blanket. I looked at the different coloured tiles on the floor before collapsing into my teenage room. Ah, my bed—nothing like the feeling of a sun-dried cotton sheet that smells like clean laundry and fresh air. The draped, cream-coloured velvet curtains were drawn with the see-through blinds behind them. The warm, pale gold, memory-heavy sun melted through them like tea through a cloth.
I looked through the massive window, I saw the land in front of our house where we used to play with the little goats screaming our heads of while they chased us… I sighed slowly and went to my closet. I picked a shalwar kameez the colour of deep sorrow—dark blue. It was a lawn suit, light enough for summer, with a white crisp dupatta. I put on some gold coloured jhumkas. For me, a jhumka isn’t just an earring; it’s the sound of a tiny bell ringing as you walk, bringing back the sound of home.
I went to the rooftop and sat on a lively, colourful charpai, ready to watch the gleaming sun go down as the moon came up while the stars modelled with it, holding the memory of when we were children. We would come up here with our cousins, eating Kurkure and practically chugging down mango juice. The sun came down gracefully—but I didn’t even watch it. Memories were flooding my brain.
I thought of the lively trips with my family to the open fields we own, walking through the crops as the tubewell flowed next to us. The crystal-clear water we used to splash at each other—it was the heart of our lives at the time. We would laugh underneath the sun, carefree. Going to McDonald’s at 1 AM because we didn’t want to eat flatbread. Us chewing dingdong thinking we owned the streets, the sound of bangles tinkling as we walked down them; the heartbeat of a Pakistani girl.
I was lost in my thoughts as the sun fully disappeared. The smell of burning wood and tea in the air reminded me of how we once played cricket underneath this moon, as the adults talked about how naughty we were being lately. A place where we chased cats and would sit in a circle in the same bedrooms talking all night. I was in a place my heart yearned for. Home.