I remember those who would mould the world to shape
One figure at a time
My mother her hands covered in clay and my father whittling without a plan only a wish and
Long ago I thought that their works were the same
that the terracotta and sandalwood enveloping me were the same
But the differences are clear to an artist’s eye:
Something fundamental
Etching your ideas into firm wood—carving life after death—or
Forcing plastic so fluid into a case of your own making
I hated how natural its unnaturalness was
I can still see it now:
Leaning over, barely avoiding the mound spinning ‘round and ‘round
Malleable fingers smoothing the cracks and imperfections
Until it was all harmonious
Free of the contradictions that follow us everywhere else
Adding details to the faceless
I can still see it now:
Peeking over work tables and chisels
Craving away the rot, is that what you do?
My father would shake his head, it was not so harsh (he would say with bated breath and I’d doubt)
That instead his work was merely—separating the wheat from the chaff
Subtracting until all that remained was the final form
Even now, far from that, words—and lines, scratches on the page waiting for purpose—
Seem to be held in place
By power beyond their understanding
From both above and below
Compelling them to take the meaning prescribed to them
And again, I would find myself surrounded by sawdust and mud clinging under my fingernails
And wonder if messages clawed beneath paint
Could be truly known and
If life—the one that I see, with closed eyes—can exist beyond my dreams.
Writer – Areeba Zabrina
Editor – Alvia Farooqui
Artist – Rufina Chan
–August 2025–
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