To be a place of rest

Roshni experiments with the story in her rhythm and the rhythm in her stories

I was about eight years old when my aunt gave us caps and took us to the road outside her home. We set up a table with pouches and glasses of water. We were on a marathon route.

As runners passed us, they picked up water from the table and drank as they ran. Some kids ran along the sidelines briefly to hand over the pouches to them.

I was shy. At some point, I joined the other kids. Soon, one runner grabbed a pouch from me, then another, and another. It went on. I filled up with joy so expansive I could have become a balloon and floated away.

About 35 years later, watching traveling rosy starlings resting in my city during these hot hot summer months offers up a similar joy to the heart. My spirit soars, and my eyes well up.

They are everywhere—in the busy markets, the gardens, outside my home, this temple, that mosque, and even the hospitals. As they rest, I hope my city feels like that little girl handing out water to runners and rejoicing when they accept.

What a privilege it is to be able to offer respite. To give. To host.
To be a place of rest.

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