The Weight of Brass and Silt

Brass polish stains my thumb-knuckle green. I am scrubbing the heavy water-pot, the ghara, that my grandmother brought from Lyallpur before the borders became wire. Iron rusts; brass remembers. A crow sits on the low brick wall, its beak wet from the dripping tap. In Jalandhar, the mist does not fall—it rises from the damp earth like steam from a slow-cooking pot of sarson da saag.

My fingers are stiff from the cold. The winter here has a sharp, metallic bite that settles in the marrow. My aunt, Bibi, sits on a low wooden peerhi, her hands busy shelling peas into a brass bowl. The steady clink-clink of the peas is the only clock we need. She does not look up when she speaks. She talks of the old house across the line as if she only left it yesterday to buy salt.

"The walls there were three feet thick," she says, her voice dry like dried corn husks. "They kept the heat out. They kept the silence in."

I dip my cloth into the mustard oil. The smell is sharp, almost vinegar-like, clearing my throat. The paper on my lap is rough-edged, bought from the old bazaar near the railway station. The ink is black soot mixed with gum. When you write on this paper, the words do not sink in immediately. They sit on the surface, wet and shining, waiting for the air to take them.

Here is the ghazal that grew from the lime-mortar of our kitchen wall:

Ghazal of the Border Silt

Wind is shaking through the dry reeds by the river this winter.
Ash is falling from the clay stove with a shiver this winter.

Your old shawl of woolen paisley smells of camphor and of rain;
Every thread is like a pathway, cold and silver this winter.

We have left the heavy iron gate unbolted for the ghost;
Only moonlight falls upon us in a sliver this winter.

No one asks about the harvest or the taxes on the grain;
Who will cross the broken border to deliver this winter?

Simran, write of clay and timber, do not speak of what is lost;
Every song is like an arrow from the quiver this winter.

Notes on Form and Cadence

This ghazal is written in an English approximation of the classical meter Bahr-e-Ramal (fā’ilātun fā’ilātun fā’ilātun fā’ilun). In our ears, the rhythm mimics the heavy, rhythmic thud of the wooden charkha—the spinning wheel—spinning short-staple cotton under a grey sky.

The radif, the repeating phrase "this winter," acts as an anchor. It is the heavy padlock on the granary door. The qafia, the rhyming sound (river, shiver, silver, sliver, deliver, quiver), is the water slipping through the fingers. In the classical tradition, the takhallis—the pen-name—appears in the final couplet, the makhta. I use my own name not out of pride, but because in our family, we do not leave our names on the other side of the river.

When Bibi finishes the peas, she throws the empty pods onto the cold mud. A stray goat will eat them before dark. The sun is a pale yellow smudge behind the eucalyptus trees. There is no grand resolution to the cold. The copper urn on the hearth begins to whistle, a low, thin sound that means the tea is ready.

I lay my pen down on the brick ledge. The ink is almost dry now, but if I touch it, it will still leave a mark on my skin.

​#writon​