Some things in life cannot be seen, but only felt, like the way the air dances across your cheeks on a spring morning, or how sunlight quietly tiptoes through clouds to greet you. That is what Ammi is like. You might not spot her glowing like angels in picture books, but I believe, no, I’m quite sure, she is something far more marvellous.
Our mornings at home are warm and quiet, stitched together by the little sounds that belong only to her. The floor creaks with secrets, the kettle sings like it knows a joke, and the smell of parathas climbs the stairs and wraps around me like a secret hug.
And then, just as always, she touches my forehead, ever so gently, and after whispering the Kalima, she says “My darling, today belongs to you.” Her voice is like the early morning, calm, cool and full of promise. Her words sink into my heart and feel like the sort of blanket you never want to let go of.
She doesn’t wear a crown, though I rather think she should. But her dupatta flows more gracefully than anything on television, even more dazzling than a queen’s finest brooch. Her hands are not silky soft like a storybook queen’s, but are a little rough, always busy, always helping, tying my laces, scooping up stray pencils from under the sofa, and wiping away my tears when I’m too proud to cry out loud.
Ammi doesn’t just cook. She conjures comfort. Her daal is a hug that lives in a bowl, and her roti has the perfect squish that cheers me up even when my sums have gone all wrong. She never needs to shout to teach me courage. If something frightens me, or someone isn’t kind, she simply rests her hand upon my back and says, “You’re not alone. Allah is with you. And so am I.” And then, just like magic, I feel like I could climb the clouds.
I once drew the moon with a huge smile and pink stars all around it. Someone at school laughed. I came home all wobbly. Ammi didn’t tell me to stop being silly. She kissed me gently and whispered, “Van Gogh didn’t stay inside the lines either.”
I didn’t know who he was, but her voice made it sound like I had drawn something special. I believed her, and I liked my moon again.
Our house isn’t grand. The paint peels a little in the corner, and sometimes the fan gives up when the lights go out. But even darkness listens to Ammi. She hums old lullabies that sound like the moon is singing. I think she might be made of light. Or maybe she’s a prayer that Allah spoke quietly and kindly, just for me.
They say heaven lies beneath a mother’s feet. I used to imagine heaven floating up in the clouds. But now, I think it lives in Ammi’s lap when I am tired. In the way she whispers my name when she prays. In the way she waits, still and patient, like a flower hoping for rain.
I once asked what she wanted for Mother’s Day, she smiled and said, “Just grow up kind.” But I want to do more. I would write her name in silver stars. I would plant her a garden that never fades. I would wrap the sky in her dupatta and lay it gently at her feet.
Ammi does not walk behind me. She walks right beside me. Every step. Every breath. And even when I grow taller than her, and I nearly am, I shall always look up to her.
She is my calm. She is my courage. She is the kindest part of my world. She is my prayer. She is everything to me.
Published in Dawn, Young World, May 10th, 2025
