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Nuha Fariha Jun 2019
Allah’s messenger said, ‘Allah has ninety-nine names, one hundred less one and he who memorized them all by heart will enter paradise.’ To count something means to know it by heart - Sahi Bukhari, Vol. 9, Book 93, Hadith 489

Cook her with Honey, Sweets, Glorious Sugar
Peaches and Hares, Soft Haired Stranger
smells like Tulips, Beloved Roses, Jasmines,
Violets, Blessed Lilies, Lotus Stars and Songbirds

First Born, Second Born, Eighth Born
The Oldest Daughter, Shy and Timid
My Father’s Blessings, My Mother’s Tears
Promise of God, God is My Father
One Who is Alive, a Songbird Fantasy

Person of the Night who Loves the
Beautiful Night Rain, *****,
Jezebel’s Daughter, Detesting Witch  

she is One Who Can Forsee, Prideful,
Original Sin, Woman of White Magic
Wild As a Mountain Goat
Torch of Light, Light of Mine, Light All Around

watch the Woman with Crown, a Woman of Victory
Truthful Ruler of the House, Ruler with a Spear
Fighting Filled With Wrath, Strong as a Little Bear
Battle Armor From the Land of the Broken
Protector of Sunrise and Nightfall
Fighting a Battle in Winter with
Wisdom and Justice

A Princess Who Has A Heart of Gold
Beauty, A Woman of High Manners
Noble Queen, Radiant Precious Stone
Shining Diamond, Like Smooth Dark Wood

our Possession, our Brand New Home, our Feast
A Reward Given, an Afterthought Charity, Chaste Homemaker
Wealthy Companion, Warm Fire, Compassionate Nurse
Say the Prayers with Heavy Stones

Divine Woman. Universal Woman.  
God’s Messenger,
Holiness, Living.
Nuha Fariha Jun 2019
Cockroaches peering between the shattered plates scattered once they heard the slap of Shanta’s footsteps up the narrow halls. 5’4 in white socks and brown sandals, she commands the room, her yellow sari, a beacon in the darkening winter days. Mrs Tagore’s radio leaks through paper-thin walls.

Pagla hawar badol diney/ Pagol amar mon jegey othey

Out the **** elevator, she glides above dull linoleum floors to her two room cardboard box. Salina’s neon pink birthday banner hangs on, cobwebs burrowed between ‘A’ and ‘L’. She put the meager groceries away, and hung the bag out the window next to of her neighbor’s drying *******, cold air a mercy from the heat of the stove. Next door, the radio blares on.

Chena shonar kon bairey; Jekhaney poth nai nai re, Shekhaney okaroney jaai chhootey

Lamb’s breath sauteed with cumin, onions, garlic and green chillis from Aladdin’s Grocery on 14th and Jasper clings to her collar like an expensive perfume. The water hisses when it’s poured over, steam rising in protest. She traps under the lid, allowing a single stream to whistle her a lonely tune.

Ghorer mukhey, aar ki re? Kono din shey jabey phirey/ Jabey na jabey na, deyal joto shob gelo tootey.

Today is Salina’s birthday, her plastic table mat is still in its place on the three legged table propped against the living room wall. Shanta puts down a chipped white ceramic plate, cuts out a slice of angel birthday cake and lights a candle, a spell casting soft gold on the old crayon drawings on the plaster walls. She sits in a plastic chair and watches the door. The song reaches its crescendo.

Brishti nesha bhora shondha bela/Kon Boloraam-er ami chaela/ Amar shopno ghirey naachey maatal jutey, joto maatal jutey.

Each echo of stilettos makes Shanta hold her breath. Perhaps this year Salina will finally come back, perhaps this year the door will open and her daughter will smile, will hug her, will laugh as her mother cries. On the table, wilted jasmines, calling cards left unused, Salina’s poems cut from magazines, the word collage blurring together. “My mother's hands/calloused/call me/ bruised mango/this is love”. Each ticking of the clock another blow, another **** collecting on the plate.

Ja na chaayibar tai aaj chaayi go, Ja na paayibar tai kotha pai go? Pabo na pabo no

Mrs. Tagore’s song ends. The candle wax melts on the cake, the cake is thrown away, the room grows dark. Shanta collapses next to the stove. She undoes her yellow sari, loosens her blouse. When she strokes herself, when she comes, she bleeds, she is coming home.
Nuha Fariha Jun 2019
Hello, thank you for using Bangladesh Free. please input the number you are trying to dial.

yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to talk to myself
there, not here, my body straddles two nations
yesterday i rubbed my fading purple stretch marks
i don’t know which language I dream in any more  
yesterday i sat in cold bathwater scrubbing until the purpura bleed
my mothers’ mothers’ mother died in a red river
my mothers mother’s mother birthed a nation
between her bleeding legs
most days I am still, her water’s edge, algae between teakwood toes
yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to tell myself

We’re sorry your minutes have run out. Please deposit ten dollars to continue.
Nuha Fariha Jun 2019
Wee black-eyed daughter Sakina was the first to notice it. The guava that had the hairs on it, prickly like a stray alleycat’s. We didn’t know what to do with it so we left it by Nana’s backyard swing next to the pond. When we came back the next day, the hairs had grown longer, this time like crooked peacock’s feathers slim, indolent Saleem’s father used for his broken down rickshaw. “Wow!” bushy eyed Hidra, “should we eat it?” Our piqued response thereafter was that Hidra should be excluded.

All throughout the monsoon season, we trekked back to Nana’s backyard, our hungry, empty Ramadan bellies growling in loud protest but we slathered on, bulwarks against chaos. Each day, the guava became more human, on Monday the smallest hint of tooth, by Tuesday three limbs, and after Jummah prayers on Friday a whole mouth! We poked it, bruised it, no regard for ****** integrity, evince the monsters we hid underneath. It was a sensation that haunts us today. Demure Dafne was the first one to clothe it, placing a ragged sun-bonnet over the eyes. A soft smile emerged then, a genteel kindness. Imbued with flimsy protection, she slipped into the pond.
Nuha Fariha Jun 2019
Girl you want some lotion? Here I got you
some cocoa, coconut, shea butter, vanilla bean
We’ll have you smelling like fresh dewdrops
From the morning rain, fresh bread, blessings,

Here let me hold that for you, here give it to me,
Here, can I help you? I got you some soup, some
Chocolate, tampons, gum, hair ties, smiles, hugs,
These are how we keep each other alive.

Girl, you gotta listen to this, it’s gonna change you
Your whole life today, go in a dark room and close your
Eyes and listen, mouth each word until its fits yours

you’re looking fine today, you’re holy, you’re whole.
you’re a whole world. here I am, right here, here
standing here, right here beside you.
Jun 2019 · 678
A Potion for Studying
Nuha Fariha Jun 2019
Gather your books, your notebooks, your pages and pages
Barely legible Catholic school cursive, oil crusted papers
Coffee stains, cheese danish crumbs, ink marks on your thighs

Use your mother’s brain, your father’s tireless oxen energy
Your sister’s bravery, your grandmother’s mix of mango & tajin,
Your grandfather’s home grown guavas from the rooftop gardens
You come from a legacy, a star doesn’t explode in isolation

At my funeral play Jamila, play Nitty, NoName,
Rihanna, SZA, Mahlia, Kamaiyah, MIA, Nina,
Light a votive in the shape of Beyonce and baby Blue
Sing your blues, the chorus never sounded this good
Jun 2019 · 1.5k
Dear Angela
Nuha Fariha Jun 2019
Dear Angela,
When was the last time the wind blew threw your hair or did it go through your body too? I didn’t know the last time we saw each other, the cat would stain on the wall with its **** and then you would miss your date. Your hair looked like a crown in the sun. Did you ever get the energy to come out of bed?

Dear Angela,
Soot collects in the hollows your cheekbones, the eyeliner you have rubbed off in your sleep. The last time I saw you, you were cleaning the cat’s **** from the walls and missed your date and we laughed it off and had pizza instead. Angela, I know you are exhausted from simply opening your eyes. Angela, do you still hold your body at night like it is something holy?

Dear Angela,
Do you remember when we had tea in the August heat in clear plastic cups with our pinkies up and your mother showed us her corrugated cucumbers? Angela do you remember when you were swimming in the Y with the ladies whose bodies could hold your body and mine and still have room for more.

Dear Angela,
Do you remember when we walked out of class during your first panic attack and how I told you to lay down on the plastic benches that littered the hallway and you said you suddenly felt calm again? Angela do you still lie down on your side sometimes and think about going back to your prime days? Did you know then?

Dear Angela,  
I can tell you to stay strong but I don’t know what that means either. I can tell you that it is winter now and it is cold and campus is a dead white man’s tomb but there are still flowers that stay in the winter time. They call it a winter garden. Angela, maybe you are a winter garden, maybe you are the softest footprint in the snow.
Jun 2019 · 1.0k
Arnav Gupta
Nuha Fariha Jun 2019
To Mr Arnav Gupta,
Forgive me bhai, your embers are still
fanned alive in my memories you are
still walking in circles in Ellipse Park

Dear Mr Gupta,
Do you know what distance a flame can travel on a summer day?
How far the flame travels in the camera frame, how long it keeps?
Your flame ephemeral everlasting still walking still wake
Purians pyres that covered brown bodies in 1687

Dear Arnav,
Do you remember when Sita sat in her Agni Praskar in Ramayana?
How women still throw themselves in their husband’s funeral?
What were you trying to purify through the seven flames?
Jun 2019 · 283
Grandmother's Shawl
Nuha Fariha Jun 2019
Your soft featherlight touch
wrapped around my shoulders
did you know you are made from tears?
Did you know you hold oceans inside of you
that the deepest part of the ocean is not blue
it is purple.

We both have a little bit of purple lipstick on us
twirl around and around until the world is a blur
your soft featherlight touch
wrapped around my shoulders
reminds me I am home in the deepest
part of the ocean.
Jun 2019 · 420
Prayer for a Bride
Nuha Fariha Jun 2019
Step out from your silver screen and your golden slippers.
Unwrap your red wedding sari that hangs heavy on your shoulders.
Loosen the blouse that strangles your *******.
Untie the skirt that suffocates your hips.
Throw away heavy golden earrings and necklace.
Wipe off the layers of kohl around your eyes.
Take off your clanging bangles.
Smash them in the ground and watch the colorful mosaic emerge under your bleeding feet.
Anoint yourself with this scarlet bindi.
Rub holud in the spaces you love and the spaces you don’t love yet. This is your holy ground.
This is where you will fight.
This is where you come alive.
Stand still and breathe.
Breathe, breathe, breathe, you are still alive yet.
Jan 2019 · 343
How Much Do You Love Me
Nuha Fariha Jan 2019
I love you like hail dancing
on the closed window pane
fast and reckless and breathless

I love you like the moon chasing
behind the sun's shadow
long and steady and slow

I love you like footprints disappearing
into the cold night's dream
soft and gentle and fleeting

I love you like a fish in water
needs air to breathe
stubborn and hard and senseless
Oct 2018 · 295
Eyes Wide Open
Nuha Fariha Oct 2018
When we make love
Your eyes are closed
Later you tell me that
I scare you that I am
The only one whose
Eyes hold no light
Oct 2018 · 482
At World’s End
Nuha Fariha Oct 2018
They say the world ended
In Grandma’s backyard
On a sultry October noon
When Eve, then two, tripped
Over her own sneakers trying
To get to that perfect red apple
When Adam, then two, saw
Eve’s demise and stepped
Over in his cowboy boots
Sunk his only tooth into that
ripe tender white flesh and
that satisfying bone crunch
Before throwing it away into
A pile of dried dead leaves
Jul 2018 · 318
Midnight Pieces
Nuha Fariha Jul 2018
Sometimes at night

quiet you gather
pieces of yourself
and stitch together
The silver moon’s
light and a promise
that it’ll be alright
it’ll be alright later

when the sun rises
Mar 2018 · 821
Cinnamon Love
Nuha Fariha Mar 2018
To the man who taught me to
put cinnamon in my coffee, put
a little swing in my hips, leave
a little smile on your lips

in the middle of an empty room, in
the middle of winter, slowly exhale,
breath our hopes in frigid air, let
them linger in soft space between

dreams and reality, dreams and reality, dreams
dissipating like the cinnamon spots, sun spots
in the middle of an empty room still lingering
Dec 2017 · 382
residual
Nuha Fariha Dec 2017
i am a collection of pencil shavings
fickle and fragile with rough edges
that ***** your fingertips and drift

my small colorful piles gather
against the white bed sheets
that you carved into me and left
Dec 2017 · 1.0k
Ocean's Kiss
Nuha Fariha Dec 2017
When we kiss I taste
the sweet saltiness of the
ocean's lingering graze

When you laugh your eyes
glow like sunspots dancing
on the water’s calm surface

When you breathe in my ear
I hear the gentle roar of waves
And when I trace behind your ears
I feel the the soft underbelly of seashells

Late at night when cars sound like
Waves hitting a distant tidal line
You whisper "How can you love me
when I am like an ocean and you
have only glimpsed the shoreline?”

But I've stood in enough tides to know
The hypnotic pull of the unknown
And coughed up enough water
to know the pain of drowning but
there's something that keeps me
returning and yearning to swim
deeper into this ocean's expanse
Sep 2017 · 788
Ghost
Nuha Fariha Sep 2017
"don't go, stay please"
hands around waist
body pressed against
the doorframe your
tongue tracing my
the back of my ear down
to the neckline as we
show ourselves layer
by layer and suddenly

it is five am and I am
tracing the outline of
dawn on your back
and you turn to hold
me again and our fingers
interlace and suddenly

it's two weeks later and
i am staring at the dots
on my phone at two am
whispering alone again
"don't go, stay, please"
Aug 2017 · 423
Pier Town
Nuha Fariha Aug 2017
Yesterday we drove down past the
Thickest thickets in the garden state
Listening to whine of The Shins with
Our windows letting in the tiny bugs
Dotting the sky between twilight hours  

You had sticky chocolate hands and
Salt specks from unfinished french
Fries on your plaid shirt tucked into
Your khaki shorts secured with a firm
Brown belt around your small hips

In the rearview mirror I watched the
Sea shore tuck itself into the small
Sea town tuck itself into the green
Fields until darkness enveloped us
And we could not sing anymore
Aug 2017 · 459
Bone Heavy
Nuha Fariha Aug 2017
Some days my bones weigh heavy and I
Can hear creaking down the back of my
Spine it sounds like my grandmother's
Chair in the middle of the night when
She sits in an empty room and knits
A spool of thread jumbled forgotten
Slowly unraveling this body of mine

Some days my bones weigh heavy from
The lives I am not living and from the life
That I am and my chest constricts my
Heart thumps as fast as the hummingbirds
Wings and my ears fill with the sound of  
waves crashing on some distant shoreline
washing dried remains of a moored whale

Today I am carrying my bones forward
Pressing out the air bubbles between
The ligaments and presenting them to
You in a porcelain case bound with a
Scarlet ribbon darker than my blood
So you can wash them with a new light
Jul 2017 · 454
Grocery Shopping on Elm
Nuha Fariha Jul 2017
I don't remember when we stopped
Going to the grocery shop together
When the silence grew too loud to talk over
When I'd stopped trailing after you with the rattling bones of canned soup, clutching the well rusted handles of the shopping cart asyou pioneered your way
Down the discount aisles proud and dusty
Stopping to pick up another sugar laden piece of the American Dream

I do remember my first day grocery shopping alone, squeaking with my empty cart hesitantly down the aisle waiting for you to come and tell me to put back the extra box of chewy chocolate chip cookies
The scuffed tiled floors shone, the fluorescent lighting cast a dull glow and I swear I heard soft angels humming over the white noise from the refrigerators
As I headed home to our white picket nightmare, the blue bags in the backseat shone like medals, subtle victories.
Jul 2017 · 368
Tata
Nuha Fariha Jul 2017
"Oh Tata you're crazy"
Almond shaped eyes pointing in
Two directions, hair still frizzy from
The static on your two toned wool
Sweater, your glasses askew hanging
Precipitously on the edge of your nose

"You're crazy" I saw again when
You'd show me notebooks filled
Earnest hasty lines naive to prove
Their worth to the world, stumbling
Figures eager to spread world peace

"You're crazy" I repeated as you
Gingerly combed the remaining strands
Of greying hair and tuck your collared
Shirt into your pressed khakis but left
ice cream splotches drying on your arms

Too late I realized that you weren't crazy
I was just too small to it was the world
That was crazy so strict with their lines and rules about who could and couldn't be
And you existed in between spaces yet undefined
Jul 2017 · 1.0k
Brown Girl Dreaming
Nuha Fariha Jul 2017
Brown girl dreams of love
that feels like drowning  

Warm oceans will heal
bruised muscles clinging
onto her rusting bones
a balm for the marks
on the inside
of her open thighs

Brown girl dreams of
a love that is drowning

Warm oceans will flood
hallowed hollows pushing
onto her collapsed walls
sinking air rises slow
in a murky tide
small noiseless cries

Brown girl dreams of
a love that drowns her
Jul 2017 · 742
Roses are Red
Nuha Fariha Jul 2017
When I was thirteen my mother
Took a rose and crushed it
Letting the thorns ***** into her sides
Pinpoints of blood blushing on her arm

“This is what a man does to a woman,
What he takes and what cannot be
Restored, this what you must endure
This is what your family must endure
Because you are a woman.”

So is it any wonder that when you
Pushed yourself inside without asking
I did not stop you, that I only closed
My eyes and saw the image of that
Crushed red rose lying limp
Between my mother’s feet
Jul 2017 · 1.3k
Ghost Stories
Nuha Fariha Jul 2017
When I was younger Nanu
Told me bhoot kahanies of
Treacherous masked nishi
That crept on four long legs
Wreaking havoc among
Peaceful village homes  

I sleep with lights on always
Lest the silent boba crept in

In 2001, I discovered bhoot
Wear the mask of friends
With benign, serpentine voices
That sat inside mosques to put
Innocent men in prison and tell
Small children to fear the sky

I sleep with the TV on always
Lest the silent boba crept in

Bhooth walk between us
Tell us to fear each other
Until we cast off our names
Convinced that these are
Weapons waiting to be
Utilized against us.
Jul 2017 · 465
9/11
Nuha Fariha Jul 2017
The yolk of yesteryear festered
Leaving fewer shoes at the masjid
Fewer smiles at Eid more taut lines
At the corner of Imam's mouth as he
Raised his hands to cover his head and
Cried the Azan to an empty room

Behind him tenuous shadows lurked
Eager to report back to an eagle with
Its talon scratched feudal lines deciding
Who gets to live and for how long
In countries far away where children
Have learned to fear the sky
Jul 2017 · 356
Summer Heat
Nuha Fariha Jul 2017
It was the type of heat that
Where bodies hungered
filled in the other's hollows
tongue in mouth in ear
the crook of the neck.

The type of heat that
left hair tangled, matted
limp against the back
leaving slick imprints.

The type of heat that
sparked and radiated
that needs no language
for ******.

The type of heat that
Has no introduction
That ends only in
Exhalations
Jun 2017 · 545
Bollywood Saturdays
Nuha Fariha Jun 2017
Saturdays we left for epic adventures
Through snow capped Kashmiri mountains
Falling in love amid flowering Swiss fields
Dancing wildly in dimly lit Spanish bars

After two hours we'd stop for Intermission
For fried pakoras and warm ketchup
Or cold chai spiced with Milly Aunty's gossip as old as the stained theater seats

From Monday to Friday we’d work
In offices in warehouses in farmyards
Until late nights became early mornings
And our bowed heads kissed concrete

With our eyes blind & our ears deaf
silently waiting for our stars to come
Apr 2017 · 826
Red Bengal
Nuha Fariha Apr 2017
I.
My mother places a dot of
Vermillion
On my forehead the same hands
That have helped
Bury a million
Unborn babies in the lush green
Fields that the brochures display

II.
The young bride enters her groom's house
Her alta colored feet leave red
Bloodstains in her wake
A young girl trails behind
places her little feet
in the same prints and
Waits

III.
The gotar mali has her arms tied above
Her head and her legs splayed blood
Drops from her body and the officials
Frame it in a green background and
call it a flag, call it a country, call it a
Dying woman's honor

IV.
My mother places a dot of
Vermillion
on my forehead
And I wonder if it's way of
branding
Women with an honor
they did not ask for
And cannot control
Inspired by the brave women warriors of Bengal.
Dec 2016 · 621
My Name
Nuha Fariha Dec 2016
I am obsessed with my name
The way it swells and curves
With straight edges that can cut
A knife wrapped lovingly in silk

I write it everywhere these days
On papers scattered around the room
On the oily remains of the dinner plate
On chalkboards in empty classrooms
On your skin in the middle of the night

each stroke is radical
Me to mine and
Mine alone
Jul 2016 · 542
Arabic
Nuha Fariha Jul 2016
When his fingers traces the border

Around the ridges of her spine

When his breath falls softly

Around the ridge of her collarbone

She whispers in Arabic to him

The words melting in the heat

Absolving this sweet sin
Oct 2015 · 7.2k
Shadow of the Mangoes
Nuha Fariha Oct 2015
The smell lingered long after she had called the ambulance, after she had scrubbed the bathroom tiles back to a pristine white, after she had thrown out the ******* mangoes he had hid in the closet. For days afterward, she avoided the bathroom, showering the best she could in the old porcelain sink they had installed in the spring when he was able to keep fresh flowers in the kitchen vase. Those days, she would come home to jasmine and broken plates, marigolds and burnt biryani, pigeon wings and torn paper. Some days he was snake-quiet. Other days, his skin was fever hot, his limbs flailing to an alien language, his head tilting back, ululating.
Every day she would carry his soiled clothes into the laundry room, ignoring the thousands of whispered comments that trailed behind her. “Look how outgrown her eyebrows have become” as she strangled the hardened blood out of his blue longyi. “Look how her fingernails are yellow with grease,” as she beat the sweat out of his white wife beaters. “Look how curved her back is” as she hung his tattered briefs to dry in the small courtyard. The sultry wind picked up the comments as it breezed by her, carrying them down the road to the chai stand where they conversed until the wee hours.
Today, there is no wind. The coarse sun has left the mango tree in the back corner of the courtyard too dry, the leaves coiling inward. She picks up the green watering can filled with gasoline. The rusted mouth leaves spots on the worn parchment ground as she shuffles over. Her chapped sandals leave no impression. The trunk still has their initials, his loping R and V balancing her mechanical S and T. They had done it with a sharp Swiss Army knife, its blade sinking into the soft wooded flesh. “Let’s do it together,” he urged, his large hand dwarfing hers. A cheap glass bangle, pressed too hard against her bony wrist, shattered.  
Now, her arthritic finger traces the letters slowly, falling into grooves and furrows as predictable as they were not. When had they bought it? Was it when he had received the big promotion, the big firing or the big diagnosis? Or was it farther back, when he had received the little diploma, the little child or the little death? There was no in-between for him, everything was either big or little. Was it an apology tree or an appeasement tree? Did it matter? The tree was dying.
Her ring gets stuck in the top part of the T. He had been so careful when he proposed. Timing was sunset. Dinner was hot rice, cold milk and smashed mangos, her favorite. Setting was a lakeside gazebo surrounded by fragrant papaya trees. She had said yes because the blue on her sari matched the blue of the lake. She had said yes because his hands trembled just right. She had said yes because she had always indulged in his self-indulgences. She slips her finger out, leaving the gold as an offering to the small tree that never grew.    
She pours gasoline over the tree, rechristening it. Light the math, throw the match, step back, mechanical steps. She shuffles back through the courtyard as the heat from the tree greets the heat from the sun. She doesn’t look back. Instead, she is going up one step at a time on the red staircase, through the blue hallway, to the daal-yellow door. These were the colors he said would be on the cover of his bestseller as he hunched over the typewriter for days on end. Those were the days he had subsisted only on chai and biscuits, reducing his frame to an emaciated exclamation mark. His words were sharp pieces of broken glass leaving white scars all over her body.  
She remembers his voice, the deep boom narrating fairytales. Once upon a time, she had taken a rickshaw for four hours to a bakery to get a special cake for his birthday. Once upon a time, she had skipped sitting in on her final exams for him. Once upon a time, she had danced in the middle of an empty road at three in the morning for him. Once upon a time, she had been a character in a madman’s tale.
Inside, she takes off the sandals, leaving them in the dark corner under the jackets they had brought for a trip to Europe, never taken. Across the red tiled floor, she tiptoes silently, out of habit. From the empty pantry, she scrounges up the last tea leaf. Put water in the black kettle, put the kettle on the stove, put tea leaf in water, wait. On the opposite wall, her Indian Institute of Technology degree hangs under years of dust and misuse.
Cup of bitter tea in hand, she sits on the woven chair, elbows hanging off the sides, back straight. Moments she had shot now hang around her as trophy heads on cheap plastic frames. A picture of them on their wedding day, her eyes kohl-lined and his arm wrapped around her. A picture of them in Kashmir, her eyes full of bags and his arm limp. A picture of them last year, her eyes bespectacled and his arm wrapped around an IV pole. The last picture at her feet, her eyes closed and his arm is burning in the funeral pyre. No one had wanted to take that picture.      
A half hour later, a phone call from her daughter abroad. Another hour, a shower in the porcelain sink. Another hour, dinner, rice and beans over the stove. Another hour and the sun creeps away for good. It leaves her momentarily off guard, like when she had walked home to find him head cracked on the bathroom tub. The medics had assured her it was just a fall. Finding her bearings, she walks down the dark corridor to their, no, her bedroom.
She sits down now on the hard mattress, low to the ground, as he wanted it to be. She takes off her sari, a yellow pattern he liked. She takes off her necklace, a series of jade stones he thought was sophisticated. She takes off the earrings he had gotten her for her fortieth, still too heavy for her ears. She places her hands over eyes, closing them like she had closed his when she had found him sleeping in the tub, before she had smashed his head against the bathtub.  
In her dreams, she walks in a mango orchard. She picks one, only to find its skin is puckered and bruised. She bites it only to taste bitterness. She pours the gallon of gasoline on the ground. She sets the orchard on fire and smiles.
Sep 2015 · 2.0k
Naans Burning on the Stove
Nuha Fariha Sep 2015
When my uncle came home from the war
he brought seven bags of naan
two pounds of butter and a piece of
shrapnel buried in his stomach

Cook he commanded
Butter the naans, heat
their skin on the stove
until they’re scorched

until they scream for release.
Cut them into a million
pieces and scatter them
Along Victory Avenue.

Once Noakhali’s valiant champion
Who scarfed 100 fuchkas  
With their blood sauce streaming
is now unable to eat

His stomach is a paunch
Growling with rotting screams
pulled fingernails and broken
bones, fragmented stories
Inspired by my Uncle who died during the Independence War in Bangladesh
Aug 2015 · 921
Mr. Nelson
Nuha Fariha Aug 2015
In a way, Mr. Nelson's death was the closest we ever got to him. It was the closest we ever came to solving his mystery. He had moved to our small town about five years ago. There were no boxes announcing his arrival. Just a small sign on the postbox and some flowers planted outside the door. Without the presence of moving trucks and their cacophony, he had inserted himself into the community.

We didn't know what to think of Mr. Nelson. We never saw him enter shops. He didn't buy groceries at SuperFoodMart, get his haircut at Barber Joe's, never browsed in the whimsical shops like Shelly's Seaside Surprises or Ahmad's Rugs, never bought clothes in K-Mart. Quite frankly, we don't know what he ate or what he used because there was never a garbage bin. In fact, we don't think he had ever walked down Main Street.

Except when there was a community event. He was always at every single Thanksgiving parade, softball games, and summer concerts. In various shades of corduroy brown and pastels in the fall and wide brimmed hats in the summer, Mr. Nelson would be there. He would never participate, never pitch the ball or cheer in the sidelines. Instead, he would have an old Nokia Lumia video camera, filming everything in sight.

Though no one ever asked him what he did with these videos, there were several theories. Ahmad thought he was a spy, a CIA agent in disguise, waiting to catch someone in our sleepy town. Joe thought he was a ******, reporting back to some godforsaken land in the East. Shelly thought he was just a creep, spying on women behind his sinister lens. We conspired together on back porches and cozy couches, on lazy summer days and cold winter nights. Some of us got tired of all the talk and tried to find out.

There were several attempts to infiltrate Mr. Nelson's house, both covert and blatant. The Betty twins hid in the flowerbeds, the Warden's daughter had tried to crawl in a window only to find that they were always shut. Mrs. Gilovich baked endless amounts of cookies, pies and casseroles only to find herself politely thanked and the recipient of a *** of jam on her doorstep the next day. One day, noisy Edna hobbled over and tried her trick of requesting water, but was greeted by Mr. Nelson at the door with a cold glass and a bemused smile.  

So concerned were we with Mr. Nelson that he came with us on vacations, on roadtrips, and even on our most solemn sojourns. In  hushed whispers he was summoned in distant lands. He skied with us over snow and water and was even known by our most tenuous relationships. It came as a surprise then, when on the last weekend of summer, we received an invitation to Mr. Nelson's wake at his house.

That Mr. Nelson had died was a revelation. Sure, he hadn't come to the last few summer shows but we didn't think too much of it. Still, it would be a lie to say that we were not excited when . Calls were quickly made to every house, to confirm the receipt of the invitation, to go through costume changes and appropriate greetings. How would we be greeted? What would we see?

Some of us, those of us who can never bear to wait, showed up five minutes before while some trickled in five or even ten minutes late. We came in clusters, hushed and energized groups, murmuring our condolences to each other. We were like eager schoolchildren visiting the Holocaust Museum, understanding the gravity of the situation yet unable to contain a sense of excitement.

In the end, we were sorely disappointed. His wife, who we had never seen before, greeted us at the door. We ate cheese and crackers while our eyes scanned every corner, attempting to ferret out an explanation. The rooms could have been any one of our homes, with furniture from last year's Pottery Barn catalogue. There were no hidden corridors, nefarious Communist propaganda, perverted sketches.As quietly and plainly as he had arrived, Mr. Nelson had bidden us goodbye.

For weeks afterwards, we exchanged ideas of what it could mean, what Mr. Nelson could possibly mean, what a life can mean. Once again, he travelled with us around the globe. Long after we had left our sleepy town, Mr. Nelson remained with us, filling us with equal measures of curiosity and dread.  What a shame we voiced, no one would ever remember Mr. Nelson. What a shame, we thought, that Mr. Nelson would outlive us all.
Inspired by Zadie Smith's anthology The Book of Other People.
Nuha Fariha Jan 2015
He drinks until he's throwing up,
When he's with the Taylor Gang

I read until my eyes are closed
When I'm at the library
Dec 2014 · 593
Coffee
Nuha Fariha Dec 2014
adrenaline rushes up
zaps between empty synapse
for a minute, a light
Then darkness expansive

hush
talking, whispers
"she's just an alternate"
sleep, wake
white boards scraped pure with
blood red markers and oceans of blue
spinning numbers pretty letters
awful alphabet designating destinies
how ****** up is that
responsibilities dragging down dreams
dreams crash dreams down dreams drown
darkness

adrenaline rushes up
zaps between empty synapse
for a minute, a light
then darkness expands
Aug 2014 · 640
Fish Batter
Nuha Fariha Aug 2014
I batter the fish,
smother them with grease
then swirl them around in sauces
the lifeless eyes stare blankly
slammed into a hard bed of
stale crumbs
then tossed into the oven.

I batter them to stop
battering myself.
Aug 2014 · 1.3k
The SEPTA : A Satire
Nuha Fariha Aug 2014
Today, I was sitting on the SEPTA, on my way to work as usual.
Suddenly, a Secane Bro appeared. This wasn't just any bro, it was a special breed, rare and only to be found at the Secane station between the hours of 7 am to 9 am and again from 4 pm to 6pm.

These are the Indian research bros.

They come in with gelled hair, starched shirts (ranging from pink, sorry, salmon, to white) and the indelible odor of Indian cooking and men's cologne.
For a more science-driven bro, a heavy backpack is essential, while the cooler bros have headphones and briefcases.

The bros are often self-conscious and gang together.
They rarely have a female companion, since such a thing is against the bro-code. They always sit together, or at least in the same car.

Most of all, the bros have hope.
They are ambitious,
flying fish in the dreary SEPTA morning atmosphere,
zealous believers willing to jump
through whatever loop and
hoop to get their own piece of the
American dream.

Dream on bros, dream on.
Nuha Fariha Aug 2014
The woman, she was the catalyst,
She sat beside me and lured me in,
All concerned nods,
And a single, delectable cookie.

Anyway, it all started
When she asked the fatal question
"Are you all alone dear?"

"All alone in the world,"
I reply, voice tremoring,
"My family, they died
Just over a month ago."

"Oh dear," she
spluttered, clearly
disturbed.

I go on, inventing
blood baths,
poisonings,
diseases,
gruesome ends
that only come to mind
With youth.

After I was neatly done
killing off family members
One by one,
Or three in the case of my
imaginary aunt's
still born triplets,

I sighed.

"It's just so awfully hard.
I don't get very many treats at
my foster parents.
Could I perhaps try a piece
of your cookie?"

"Of course" she replies,
"Here, take it all."
thinking she was helping
another lost soul.

After scarfing it,
(it was delicious, absolutely perfect)
we reached our stop
I thanked her,
the kind, misguided soul,
I stepped off

Into my loving parents embrace.

"Don't you know,
I had the worst trip.
Sat next to this fussy old woman.
I could really use a treat."

So spun the next web.
Aug 2014 · 537
How it is
Nuha Fariha Aug 2014
You know how it is,
the lady tells me,
Growing up with five siblings
In South Philly

The look in her eyes,
mistrust and scorn,
tells me that she doesn't believe me.

I tell her,
Growing up in a third world country,
where you only eat once a day,
where you get electricity for two hours max,
running water even less,
where everything is an unaffordable luxury
You know how it is?

Living in a one room apartment
cohabited by cockroaches,
married by age 16,
dead by age 30,
You know how it is?

Being homeless for so long
that clothes are literally
sewn into skin
You know how it is?

But I don't.
How it is is not a competition,
not a sick, perverse way to measure
who hurts the most, whose life
represents disaster best.

I nod.
It is how.
Nuha Fariha Jul 2014
The walls are made from mossy rough blankets,
buttressed by lumpy pillows.
The flashlight, stolen from the nurse's pocket,
casts yellow moonlight to help him survey the land.  

There's a lot growing in these woods
the roves of blood thirsty IV tubes,
the constant clatter from distant lands
piped through the TV from the next door over.

The prognosis is bad,
but he doesn't care
He's protected here,
in his cradled form,
still exploring even as
he takes his last breaths,
ready to conquer new lands.
Jul 2014 · 787
Poetry Class
Nuha Fariha Jul 2014
"Hope is a thing with feathers"
They read, confused.

The only feathers in life were
On TV or locked away in a zoo.

They read the poetry of Whitman
The dictates of Emerson
Of Ginsburg, Steinbeck, Salinger
Nothing made sense

When you spend your life being prodded
From concrete box to concrete box
Stuffed, squashed and barely managing to survive,
Imagination is rare

It's hard to picture feathers,
Red hunting caps, blooming lilacs,
Open roads
Between ***** pavements
Glittering broken bottles, and leftover plastic

Beauty became an expensive concept,
Best left for academics
Jul 2014 · 512
#freechoice
Nuha Fariha Jul 2014
"You can do whatever you want!
She proclaimed
A thousand eyes peered at her
scornful, disdainful
It was a motto they'd heard often,

"You can" had lived longer
Than any of their friends
It was etched onto their brains
Next to the minimum skills for the low-wage job they held
and the worries about getting food on the table

"Do whatever" echoed
Through broken doors,
Creeped in the cracks between
Grafitti plastered walls,
trash-strewn streets were nothing thrived.

"You want" whispered
In the silence between gun shots,
Hospital beeps, loud televisions, squawking carts
Slapping them awake when they fell asleep after
Working 20 hour shifts

"Just follow your dreams" she continued
(Not that you can anyway because you'll
Never be treated equally, never be given
The attention you need, never be lucky)

"Remember, everything is a choice!"

Options are not included.
Follow me on tumblr, if you like, http://nuhafarihaisfordprefect.tumblr.com/
Jun 2014 · 496
Battle Wounds
Nuha Fariha Jun 2014
This is not a critique
It is not an attack
But if you treat each word as a bullet
Then you are bound to bleed
Jun 2014 · 493
Repetitions
Nuha Fariha Jun 2014
My mother she tells me
That color does not matter
That white just means that
they are lacking pigments,
science really.

When I come home crying
My mother she tells me
If they mock me,
it's only because they are jealous

When I sit alone at lunch
My mother she tells me
If they avoid me,
It's only because they are jealous

When I have no one to invite to my graduation
My mother she tells me
If they do not come,
It's only because they are jealous

What are they so jealous of?

Words can only be repeated so many times
before they lose meaning
And I'm afraid
That my mother's words
Ring hollow in my ears
Jun 2014 · 2.0k
The Drawing
Nuha Fariha Jun 2014
Pencil lapsed over paper, strokes struck blank.

Curves raced up and down the stairs, lines longed to curve.
Loops eloped to a wedding
Spirals sprung out,
Dashes dashed,
Crosses squares with circles
Triangles jumped over rectangles
Ovals wove throughout

Dot was left to point out
The empty blank around him
Jun 2014 · 598
Hospital Room (Senseless)
Nuha Fariha Jun 2014
Touch was left senseless, confined to a single, gray sheet

Vision squealed
Cornered by hard lines, transparent materials and cruel facts

Hearing despaired, assaulted by
squeaks, squawks spears
piercing relentlessly

Taste strived to differentiate,
bland it seems, could have multiple types
from desperate to demure and back again

Brain sighed.
It had accepted defeat.

The final yawn covered the room,
rest finally arrived.
Jun 2014 · 671
Tropes
Nuha Fariha Jun 2014
My mother wanders into the fancy party,
A bull in the china shop,

Her eyes are saucers as she watches
Waiters enslaved to the night

Unidentified identities lie behind masks
She's afraid


Not unsmart she repeats
Not uncultured
Not uncivilized

Not un (is) not un (is) not un (is)
A meter, a harmony, a rhyme
Meaning inherent
May 2014 · 830
Jungle Remains, Ithaca
Nuha Fariha May 2014
Buried the sleeping bags
(Bodies inside)

Ate concrete blocks
Drank tangled wires

Welcome to the Jungle
South of Ithaca.

Smashed bottles
Shattered illusions

Shoved tires
(Inside ground)

Welcome to the Jungle
South of Ithaca.
Apr 2014 · 377
Transliterated
Nuha Fariha Apr 2014
Hey, how was your day?
(do you still hate me?)

It was okay.
(yes I am still mad)

Anything interesting?
(what can I do to get you to forgive me?)

Nope.
(Not  a single thing.)

Words not said:
I love you,
I can't be mad at you,
I'm sorry.
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