For Uzma, joining her local Creative Writing Circle was the challenge she felt ready for, a therapy of sorts. When she wrote, secrets flowed from her pen, bypassing her brain and heart into prose on the page. They told of the secrets she kept, the secrets she revealed and the secrets she told herself.
It was as if this week’s writing prompt was beckoning her to confront all her secrets at once. Let’s do this, she thought…
I have never forgotten my first taste of barfi as a toddler, how the creamy chickpea fudge melted on my tongue
I have never forgotten when my mother told me my looks were more important than my education
I have never forgotten how books transported me into new worlds
I have never forgotten how special Devesh made me feel in those first few months
I have never forgotten how, once I fell pregnant, Devesh made me feel like his property
I have never forgotten the dull thud of a fist against my temple
I have never forgotten my baby daughter crying when she heard me cry
I have never forgotten arriving at the Women’s Refuge with a 5 week old baby
I have never forgotten the heartbreak of realising I could never contact my family again
I have never forgotten the elation of being accepted onto the community midwife course
I have never forgotten the mould in our first bedsit and the fight for decent housing that followed
I have never forgotten how hard it has been to forgive myself
I have never forgotten when Dai told me he loved for the capable, creative independent woman I was
I have never forgotten that I come from long line of courageous Bengali women
When Uzma looked up after writing continuously for 20 minutes, she felt years of tension slide from her shoulders like an outgoing tide. She ripped the page from her notebook, thinking of a secret place to hide it.
“Mum, have you seen my eyeliner”, called Mahreen peeking around a half opened door. The sight of her daughter roused Uzma from her trance. Mahreen, 15 years old, everyday living up to the meaning of her name ‘radiant, moon-like’. She inhabited herself in a way the teenage Uzma could only dream of. Sassy in style and opinions, rocking her East West style of bindi and ripped jeans.
Mahreen was the reason Uzma managed to push through the toughest of times; to ensure her daughter could embrace her culture but not be shackled by it. However, Uzma’s cobbled backstory that explained their lack of wider family – based on Uzma being an orphan – felt increasingly wobbly.
“Mum… are you ok… you look weird. Is that your Tesco shopping list?” said Mahreen, uncharacteristically not pushing for her make up.
“Come grana”, said Uzma patting the quilt beside her “while I tell you the story of this list”.
