Dhon Aisa
By Latheefa Ahmed Verrall
I remember that first day you burst into my childhood. You stood on our veranda and behind you a backdrop of chandhanee and husnuheena trees tossed and twirled their flowers in the twilight breeze. My sister was outside, willing the lilies to open. As dusk approached, they popped open in quick succession, exposing the yellow centres, heavily laden with pollen. Their tendril-like petals imitated the large spiders which frequented the dusty corners of our home. Not to be out-done, the strong scent of jasmine drifted in from the trellis outside, to mingle with the slow, rhythmic murmur of the old man saying the evening salawaifulhu.
‘I hate the sea,’ you said. ‘In any case, Masveriya wasn’t too happy with us women travelling in his fishing boat.” I studied your face and how the long, black hair was pulled to form a careful knot at the side of your head. But there was no time for a quiet assessment of you, the stranger. You had other stories to tell. ‘I may never return to my island again, not because I don’t want to, but the sea…’ I lost interest in the adult- talk and looked down to take note of the fact that you did not wear any shoes. I approved.
Then you laughed.
