When I asked if anyone wanted to do a guest post while I was gallivanting around London I had two volunteers. One was the lovely @deililly who wrote this post here.
The other person who offered – to my enormous pleasure – was one of my favourite bloggers, The Spice Spoon.
Her blog is nominally about food - full of vivid, mouthwatering photographs of sumptuous dishes that she cooks for her lucky, lucky husband, many of which have been handed down through her Afghan/Pakistani family.
What is so very special about her, though, is that the stories she tells leading up to the recipe are fascinating, emotionally resonant, poignant and deeply evocative of a life at once so different to mine, and yet familiar because she strikes the human chord in all of us.
I do not like cooking very much and I only really care about food when someone puts something delicious right under my nose (happy to oblige chef by eating it!) but I am a compulsive reader of her blog.
I think, after reading this post you will be too.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Missing Person’s Report
.
Has anyone seen my Ami (mother)?
5′ 5″ with hair the colour of ebony. The finest ebony which is found in East Africa. Still. Shiny. Beautiful. Front strands often highlighted in slivers of bronze.
Her skin, glossy and creamy like cappuccino.
She goes out a lot in the evenings with my father, for a night out in Georgetown, DC. A few nights ago she wore a white Biba jumpsuit cinched at the waist with a purple belt. Gold Charles Jourdan sandals, with a matching clutch. Eyelids dusted in shades of lapis lazuli by Mary Quant. Lips glossed, her high cheekbones highlighted a pearlescent shimmer. Surma (kohl) from Pakistan, lining her deep-set eyes. Hair parted down the middle.
I stood next to her as she sat in front of her vanity, applying surma in her eyes from a small, intricately carved antique silver bottle. It belonged to her grandmother. Her mother’s mother. I watched nervously as she used her hand to effortlessly glide the needle-thin surma applicator through her shut eye; opening it to reveal a coal dust-like outline. Like the eyes of women from the Bronze Age. Every summer we went to Lahore, my grandmother would send this surma bottle to the village to have it refilled for her daughter with this onyx dust.
That night, Ami came to my room to tuck me in. I could smell Joy by Jean Patou, the smell that was only my Ami’s. She was winsome and lithe. And beautiful. But I feel Ami disappeared, soon after.
I never filed a Missing Person’s Report, as I am rather confused.
The lady I now see in my family home wears pressed black trousers, a bit loose. I am quite sure this older lady is Ami, but I tell myself, Ami would never wear those trousers. This lady also wears a loose-fitted ivory pullover and flat, black Ferragamo loafers. “Those resemble orthopaedic shoes, the kind I saw in the Farmacia near the Piazza del Popolo,” I think to myself. Her grey hair is dyed auburn and parted to the side. A bit papery and wispy at the ends. The same high-cheekbones and deep-set eyes as my Ami’s. “But my Ami has ebony-coloured hair,” I tell myself.
This lady doesn’t cook much. She stopped cooking after her separation. But on Eid, she makes aromatic rice for me, with those caramelised ribbons of onions which I love. I have to pick out the cloves, I dont know why she adds them in. That day, she also makes a pudding with vermicelli, sugar, full-cream milk, cardamom, almonds and raisins. She stirs the pot on top of the stove all day, waiting for it to become thick and creamy. She serves it to me in a little teacup to drink. To taste before she takes it off the stove. As I greedily sip the hot, creamy, sweet pudding, I nod my head. She always uses special sundarkhani raisins, from Iran.
This lady drives very slowly. I often peer out the window to see her pulling out of the long drive-way, forwarding and reversing a few times. “Not like my petrol-head Ami,” I tell myself. Ami used to drive me down Collingwood Road in our suburb of Washington, DC. The road curved up and down, up and down. She would drive fast till I got butterflies in my stomach and almost threw up my french fries from the McDonald’s Happy Meal.
I love this lady. She answers my calls even when she is driving or when she is asleep at 5 in the morning, when I have forgotten the time difference between Rome and Washington. She buys me an Eid and birthday gift every year, no matter where in the world I am, and gives it to me when she sees me. She teaches me what humility is. She keeps a glass jar of cardamoms next to the tea bags in the kitchen whenever I go home to visit. She knows I like a pod in my tea. She buys Trader Joe’s whole wheat waffles and keeps them in the freezer for me when I visit. Sometimes she forgets the maple syrup. But I slather them with raspberry jam and butter instead. When she sits on her chair to pray, I watch her hands. I recognise them from my childhood. From that day when she applied surma in her eyes. Now they are like putty and soft. She doesn’t sit on the musallah (prayer rug). She tells me it makes her ankles hurt. When she removes her hands from her face, after prayer, her eyes are always wet. I know why. I want to tell her I love her.
I love this lady but I want to ask her, “Have you seen my Ami?” She used to wear blue eyeshadow and jumpsuits, her glossy, black hair resting on her slender back. I haven’t seen her since.
Where did she go?
{ 33 comments… read them below or add one }
This is such a beautiful post – so well written and emotional. It made me think of my Iranian grandma applying the most gorgeous creams and make-up and cooking all day when she came to visit. Thank you for such a special post. x
lovely piece…it evokes a response. a mother daughter relationship so sensitively told, so true in so many ways…truly will remain with me.
What a beautiful piece – even though it is a personal story it also applies to so many mother/daughter relationships. Seeing one’s parent grow old is a very heart wrenching experience. Thank you for sharing this, even my stone heart shed a few tears after reading this post.
So beautifvul – I have tears clouding my eyes. I am thinking about the liver spots I now see on my mother’s hands. That isn’t right.
Thank you for describing a bond so well.
Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. By the time I got to the end of the post I was crying so much. It is such an accurate description of Ami – I could picture every single line clearly. I read the post to Ami and she started telling me about her jumpsuit and eyeshadow days and her nights out on the town. She said she bought the jumpsuit and belt from Spain – this made me cry even more. Ami told me to stop crying and make sure that Sophia always saw me in my “jumpsuit!” and we both started laughing. Thanks for this post. It made me realize that we take our mothers for granted and we should try and always appreciate them more because they are so brave.
Beautiful! Your writing is so evocative I can just see her, in both her guises. My mother wore Joy when we were children as well – such a simple yet totally perfect fragrance.
clare
A beautiful and touching post, and lovely to read today which is my own mom’s birthday. xxx
how brave you are. it has never been easy for me to describe how I feel about my mother, and you have done it perfectly – a fleeting and yet a poignant reflection.
Like a Debussy fantasy – dreamlike, subconscious, full of wonder, magic and a little sadness. The love I feel for my mother is primordial, a given, something that was there way before I realized that I exist outside of her, but along the way, intertwined with this LOVE, so many conflicting emotions rise and fall. Sometimes, like you, I don´t recognize her, and refuse to accept the changes, sometimes I feel I have become her – and it is all too raw and difficult most of times. Yet, also for me, being with my mother is my most natural state – a quiet homecoming – no matter where in the world she or I may be – she is my home. thank you for reminding me.
Hello all, Thank you so much. I wanted to share with all of you is how hard it is for me to see my mother age- I am sure we have all felt that at some point or another.
@Cherie Iranian ladies are known for their beauty – I can only imagine how lovely your grandmother must have been like, coming from that generation in Iran. As children we are in such awe of them, arent we? Thank you for your kind words.
@Mud I can imagine how you feel, but as my aunt told me, after reading my piece, “that young lady who was your mummy, is always there beside you.” Even with the spots on her hands now.
@Clare I remember you mentioning your mum wore Joy, too. Isnt it amazing how perfume evokes such great memories. Thank you for your lovely words and for reading my guest post.
@FSAADAT OK, you made ME cry now. Yes, always be that “jumpsuit wearing Mummy” for your daughter, Sophia. She also has two Tia’s as mummies who love her.
@Sabrina @Lipstickmasala Thanks darlings.
@Nairy It is so beautiful what you wrote about it all being a “quiet homecoming”. We are, indeed, in our natural state when we are with our mothers. Regarding becoming like them, I hope MTFF writes a post on that very soon- as it is a tricky subject!
Gorgeous writing, I loved it when you watched her hands as she prayed. I miss my Mum, it would have been good to watch her grow old, enjoy her whilst you still have her.
beautiful! I can taste the cardamom!
@Pig in the Kitchen Isn’t it strange how we look at our mothers just the way we did as a child? I do definitely value having her around. She doesnt have her mother anymore and misses her, this reminds me of MTFF’s previous post “Always Be My Baby.” Thank you for your most kind words.
@Geekymummy Many thanks.
I found this post by way of facebook. Very touching piece…I fowarded it to my own mother after reading. You write beautifully, keep it up!
So lovely! Made me tear up
Such a beautiful post. My mother also wore Joy when I was young. She’s still relatively young but we (the sisters) are always making sure that she doesn’t age too quickly (or that’s what we like to tell ourselves) as honestly I don’t think I really want to be aware of my mother aging. I hound her about walking everyday, doing yoga a few times a week, making sure she sees a doctor who is up with the latest trends. She hasn’t resisted up until now but we are waiting for the day when we feel she isn’t interested in us hounding her. xxx
Wow Shayma – thank you! Very moving!
Its such a well-written piece, poignant and endearing without being a downer. I love my Amma like you do, and often observe the same things that you have so well written about. There will never be anyone in the world like her. She may not be as young as before, but in my mind’s eye, she will always be the Amma who is Super Woman – getting 50 million things done simultaneously, making it look so easy.. and sharing warmth and love with everyone – with unconditional love for me and my brother.
Thanks for putting what so many of us feel, so well into words.
hugs
m
you really have a gift for words.. its a beautiful tribute to all mothers.
this subject is bittersweet for me because of my loss.. my mother was my anchor and this just reminds me why i felt that way..
This is such a lovely post and I’m so grateful to you for writing it. It’s wonderful to read the comments and see how much other people resonated with this, how much pure love they feel for their mothers. I hope Five and Two feel like this about me, spots on my hands, wrinkles on my face notwithstanding (in fact some of those are showing up now, AGHH).
My relationship with my own mother is not so uncomplicated and easy – in fact my difficulties with her are in part the inspiration for my trying so hard to be a good and present mother to my own children. I feel hugely heartened to read how you all feel about your mummies. Hope for me yet!
Beautifully written. very evocative and sensitive. what a gift to have a mother who evokes such feelings in you.
What an eloquent, beautiful, wonderful descripton of all mothers and the pain we experience as they grow older and we become aware of their mortality. They no longer have the samer energy or dress up in quite the same way, do they? I miss my Ammi after reading this and will call her in Karachi today..
Just got off the phone with Ami and then read this post. Am teary eyed.
Mother’s and daughters have such a beautiful relationship.
A huge hug to Aunty Saroosh!
Shayma, This is soo beautifull, it brought tears to my eyes!!! God Bless all mothers, and God give them healthy lives. Just having them around is blessing enough one cant imagine the void one is left with when they are gone.
what a beautiful post..makes me want to cry. my mother used to wear Joy too..amazing how certain smells can evoke such strong memories.. thanks for sharing..Mothers are truly God’s greatest gift..i’m going to call mine now..:)
@LP @Eman Thank you for your kind words.
@Miz Our mothers always will be Superwomen for us. Sometimes I am busy and dont answer my mother’s call- and then I think- she answers my calls at all hours- how rude I am…I feel like our mothers are better than us.
@Fati You’re going to be a mother soon, inshallah and I know you will love be the best mother in the world, having learnt so many wonderful things from yours.
@Zurin Thanks, dear.
@Maheen Yes, they dont, and I wonder how girls feel whose mums still dress up like they’re 20 or 30!
Thank you for your lovely words, Maheen.
@Ambreen You are lucky you live so close to your mother. Give her my love. And thanks for your sweet words.
@Mehreen Thank you so much. I guess all mothers from that generation wore similar perfumes- First, Joy, Caleche, No 5. Brings back such memories when I smell it.
@MTFF Thank you for this honour- for this opportunity to express something I have never expressed before- not even to my own mother. My sister read the story out to her which made her very happy. Two and Five have a loving, caring mother who has centred her life around them, the age spots, the wrinkles, none of those things will matter. Hope you are now with them, back home from your lovely trip to London.
A beautifully written post! I have happy tears trickling down my cheeks; tears for the hug i soo desperately want from Amma right now and a smile for knowing how brave she is and how proud I am to be her daughter.
Growing up with Amma, who suffers from bipolar disorder, meant for us as a family, loosing her time and time again. When she was very ill,often months would go by with her bearing no resemblance to my Amma, and although we were home, we felt so far from it. What made it easier was knowing that everytime she came back to us and to herself, it was with a renewed vigor to stay for a long long time…
Will read your post to her when I see her.I am sure she’ll love it!!!
@Ayesha Your mother was a strong, generous, graceful, loving, beautiful, lady; a woman who will be remembered forever. Her presence is still felt when I go to your family home. You not only look like her, but are like her, and she will always live through you. Much love to you.
@Amina We are all so proud of your Amma, what a resilient and beautiful lady she is. And what amazing children you have been to her, always standing by her side. Being with your Amma when she “came back to her usual self”, is, as my friend Nairy so aptly said, like a homecoming.
This post really hit me. Right in the heart. I look at Maw and see the little changes that lie over the mother I see in my head. So confusing now the two visions are not the same.
Sorry I’m so late coming to this post.!Your piece affected me in many different ways: admiration for your graceful facility with the written word; appreciation for the love you and your family share; and, I must confess, a bit of envy for your relationship with your mother. My mother’s still alive, but I lost her – or we lost each other – many years ago. Like MTFF, I’m hoping that my son and I can maintain a stronger and more loving bond than the one I share with my mom, and that it will endure for years to come.
Shayma, what a beautiful post about your relationship with your dear mom. You have touched my heart with your words. I could have written this post about me ten years ago!
@Pochyemu Wishing your mum a very happy birthday.
@So Lovely I hope your mum always remains youthful, and with loving girls like you and your sisters, she will always be taken care of. I hope my mum always remains healthy and independent mashallah, too.
@Azita Thank you, Azita. I am so happy to see you read my post and also, visited MTFF’s blog. There will always be beautiful stories written by her, to read here.
@deililly Yes, that is exactly how I feel. But then when she gets irritated with something I do, I think, ah, there she is!
@Arlene Thank you so much for your loving and kind words. You have a beautiful relationship with your son, sometimes grandchildren help grandparents find their way back to their children (I have watched Chocolat way too many times, perhaps). I hope you find solace in that bond with your son that you have lost with your mother.
Shayma – this is beautifully written, you touch so many aspects of her life and each bit is statisfying but leaves us hanging. After giving birth to my daughter, I truelly understand the meaning of mother. My ‘Anne’ mom is an unbelievable woman and just like you I sometimes wonder where she is. Even though she is with me, sometimes she gets lost in her own world. Being a mom means a lot things, its just a matter of appreciation and understaning that appreciation.
Thank you for sharing this with us.
Sooooooo Great and effective, I really enjoyed of your words!
If I wrote so shortly, it means 2 things: 1.My english is not well 2.I can’t explain my feeling well by words in writing or speaking
Dear Shayma Please please continue writing ,I could see the day that your books are in the stores and many people would enjoy of your simple ,clever and lovely stories.
Best Regards
Parisa
Dear Shayma I’ve just found time to read it and must say it’s one of the most beautiful touching short stories I’ve ever read. You do write beautifully and can’t wait to read more written by you. Your mum must be so proud …Love you always. Efy