Husna Siddiqi

I can smell the frankincense. And hear the cries of merchants, euphonic jingling, glass bangles reflecting sunlight onto rugs. Aroma of rice, colours of spice. The beating of dust off mosaics, and the picking of loose threads from winter's fabrics. I watch the dexterity of the women who

You are barefoot, settled on hard granulated heat. You scoop thousands of grains against their adamance until these sifting sands fall through your fingers: this silk shawl built from boulders slips and captivates you, with the ironic euphony of coarse rain. They fly and pile, form fragile mountains. And you