Dera Ismail Khan

The rooster's call—piercing through the veil of dawn—
Pulling me from the depths of sleep, eyes heavy.
Its cry rises into the soft light of morning,
Where the sun slowly stains the sky in shades of red,
A warm glow spreads like a whisper across the clouds.

I rise from the charpai, its wooden frame pressing against my skin,
Every muscle aching with the memory of the night’s stillness.
I slip my feet into chappals, the soles kissed by the dust of this land,
Each step stirring the ground beneath me,
The soil here is loose and fine, carried by the whisper of the wind.

My shalwar kameez gently sways with each step I take,
Its fabric flowing with the rhythm of the morning,
Threads woven with care, the touch of tradition in every seam.
At the faucet, I struggle with the handle, cold water bursting free,
And in the mirror, my mother’s kameez drapes around me,
Soft, adorned with viny flowers sewn by hands that knew love,
White beads tracing the edges, catching light like quiet stars.

Threads woven by hands that spoke in the language of heritage,
Every stitch a prayer, every fold a call to those who came before.
At the faucet, I wrestle with the stubborn metal,
My hands tremble in the morning's chill.
Water splashes onto my face, cool and sharp,
And in the mirror’s reflection, I see not just myself
But the echo of my mother’s grace, draped in her kameez—
Delicate as a sigh, its fabric thin yet resilient,
Adorned with vines that climb like memories,
And white beads that shimmer like constellations in the dawn.

The air hums with the scent of cumin, turmeric, and cardamom,
The kitchen is alive with the heartbeat of my home.
I crave the warmth of a paratha, its edges crisped to perfection,
But more than that, I crave the comfort of belonging,
The taste of roots, the flavor of history on my tongue.

As I bite into its golden folds, I taste the soil of this place,
The laughter of mornings gone, the whispered stories of my ancestors.
And I realize, it’s not just hunger that fills me—
It’s the longing to be a part of this endless thread,
To find myself woven into the fabric of my people’s song,
Every bite a testament to where I come from,
Every breath a quiet prayer to the land that holds me,
Dera Ismail Khan, where the dust becomes my blood.