When People Ask About Home

When people ask about home, I am
silent. I have no words to let them
hear the way the first drops of monsoon
drum upon the parched heart of Lahore.

When people ask about home, I am
bewildered. I have no idea how to make them
smell the sweetness of methi in July,
the yellowbrightness of its smile.

When people ask about home, I am
ashamed. I think about the woman in the Gucci
sunglasses who called Mukhtaraan Mai
“attention-hungry, I mean, poori dunya ko batana zaroori hai
‘I was raped’? Seriously, yaar!”

When people ask about home, I see
the bluewhite glare of TV screens, circus rings
where Begum Nawazish and Zaid Hamid
hold court with equal aplomb and mothers
scream the names of missing sons, the blood
that darkens the streets of Rawalpindi.

When people ask about home, the place
where I come from, I remember
the almond-tree blossoming in Mum’s garden
in Quetta, the green-eyed nurse in Peshawar
who held my hand and led me to the incubator
where my baby brother slept, the time when
Usama was lost in the hotel-maze of Bhurbaan
and the gatekeeper with the fiercest moustache
kept him laughing until Dad swept him (Usama,
not the gatekeeper) back up in his arms, the way
everyone at that concert in Lahore leapt to their feet
when Pappu Saeen spun his dhool—whirling dervish,
the songs of Bulley Shah still sung in this day and age.

When people ask about home, the place
where I come from, I see in my mind
parade-grounds in Islamabad, crowds
that cheer in Pushto, sing in Punjabi,
roar in Balochi, orate poetry in Sindhi--
a many-mouthed dragon roar, a clarion-call
‘This is where I come from,
this is my home.’