Three Poems by Sumayya Arshed

by Sumayya Arshed

Morning Nihari

the pot opens at dawn, red rivers of spice thickening with bone marrow,

steam rising like a sermon, coating the kitchen walls in devotion.

bread balloons on the griddle, each tear of naan a covenant,

and my mothers hand dips first, steady, practiced, into the stew.

the broth carries fragmented echoes of empire, remnants of the alleys of lahore,

where nihari is medicine, memory, and morning all at once.

ginger slivers gleam like sunlit scythes,

and green chilies spark against bone, heat that insists on being remembered.

outside, the city stirs; inside, silence folds around the table, everyone bent toward the same bowl,

each sip binding us closer,

until the day itself tastes slow,

and strength feels inherited,

ladled from ancestors into the blood.

How To Save a Bad Morning

crack two eggs into a bowl, let the yolks open like twin suns, and whisk them until the room

remembers light.

slice an onion thin, let its sharpness sting your eyes awake, then scatter tomatoes,

their red softening the blade.

drop green chilies, small sparks against the dullness of dawn,

fold in some coriander leaves.

salt it all, for the body still craves the earth,

and pour into hot oil, where the mixture hisses,

edges curling, fragrance climbing the walls with promise not to leave. like all promises made in

the hush of the dawn, this one, too, is violated too soon.

fold once, gently, as one folds a shroud,

and gulp while warm, each bite carrying fire and tenderness into the hollow places.

an omelette is a small, small thing.

it will not save the world, but it might steady your shivering hands, return language to the mouth,

and perhaps remind the soul that sustenance, too,

is a form of prayer.

Three Lives Back

i peel the onion for pasta,

though it doesn’t belong here

nothing ever does.

first skin: papery, thin as moth wings, a hush.

stillness clings to it, the kind

that lives in closed rooms after depression has set in.

second layer: a bazaar uncoils,

dust rises in cumin clouds,

vendors shout in dialects older than borders,

metal pans ring with oil.

a boy runs barefoot, clutching his kites.

laughter leaks from a corner stall selling bangles

and betel leaf.

third layer: violet

like the bruises one never interrogates about.

like a mother’s silence after long-distance calls.

it stings.

memory does not wait for the knife to reach it.

another slice. the kitchen grows thick with stories:

women bending over clay stoves,

saris tugged over sweat-wet backs, elbows stained with turmeric,

songs hummed half into steam, half into history.

the onion weeps. so do i.

but we say it’s the acid.

we pretend it’s always the acid.

by the time the pan heats,

i’ve time-travelled three lives back.

and i’ve yet to touch the garlic.