The eastern sky grew darker, the soft radiance of incandescent light reflects through window pane.
Sitting on the bedside, my mother would braid my disordered hairs.
Diving deep in conversations, I ask
“Mother, Who Am I?”
She sat up, strangely perplexed.
And tell me that I’m God’s image and love is my true identity.
But deep within that delicately forged skin, this question made her feel empty.
She would tell me.
My identity is my name, my gender and the family institution.
To keep me rooted to herself, in the name of emotional restitution.
As I got older, she told me about my duties attached with the different roles.
And the invisible thread named “Social Boundaries”, which will curb my goals.
But “Have patience my child”, she said.
As these restrains are law of nature that we can’t bend and must not overlook.
She told me her tales, tales of the time she felt like a glitch. Short-lived, self-correcting, fault.
But embrace it, caress it, rather than submitting. And break free of the chaos from the start.
She warned me not to believe other’s perception, with trickery in their hands.
And tell them “Dear Sir, you are on the wrong side of, who I am”.
There will come a time when your name and the place you belong to, will look fragile.
And you will remove and hide these different shells in deep pit, covered with heaps of sand.
With this her tongue trembled, her hands quivered.
She would pull a bit tighter on my braids.
And remind me again and again to look for myself.
There’s fire in you little girl, fire in your soul.
Keep looking for you passion, your courage, your happiness and your goals.
And as I sat there on the bedside, night after night ready to fall.
I thought in this simple explanation, even before the journey started, I mastered it all.
Years later, as the incandescent light reflects through the window pane.
Sitting on the bedside, I’m reading this open letter.
As the little girl asks “Mother Who Am I?”
I strengthen my back and smile. And tell her.
Her name and that the rest of the journey is in her hands.