Desi Back to Desh

Between airports, airplanes and transit lounges

Taha

I don’t know where he goes when he looks through me. His don’t disturb me, I am thinking look…

If he is sitting with me, I can feel the transition and the change. The momentum shifts, he slows downs and settles, like our Civic adjusting to the fourth gear and cruising at 60 miles an hour on Creek Avenue. I can see the world whizzing by, one milestone, one tree at a time, while Taha wraps himself up in a temporal field; like a lay down with a blanket and a good book. It’s funny it does feels like that – a good book. A memory wrapped up in thin petals of colored paper and cherished for the next few months. Like a clear signal that finally cuts through the noise, he looks at me and says, clearly, making the effort to reach me. Or when after a long run on Sunday morning at the Museum, he decides to sit in my lap or on the floor and reach for the sky with his eyes and for Pandora with his mind.

I don’t know what he sees when he goes where he goes to think and slow down. Maybe one day he will take my hand and show me.