By Jimmy Bangash I stand within the kitchen gazing up to watch my mother As she places back the huge black dustbin lid; having taken out a bowl of flour. White snow upon winter lands captured in her hands. She smiles down at me as I wait in anticipation. Then she begins; as she kneads the dough; a low hum in an octave so angelic telling tales of distant lands in languages I cannot speak And I smile. And I try to catch her tune with my voice though…
Dupatta
