Nida Sajid

Nida Sajid is a poet, writer and organiser. She holds an MA in Cultural Studies from Birkbeck, University of London, specialising in experimental literature. Her poems have appeared in Covert, Gather, StepAway, Folk oan the Edge and more. She is the author of COOP: A Novelette (Hajar Press, 2025).  

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Dum

That time we drove from Lahore to D.G.

Khan, bundled in the back seat of a slate

Mehran. Flanked by soft toys and a flask of

Jam-e-Shirin, we peer through smeared glass. The

night is nascent, rubbing ribbons of light

from jaded eyes. Chalo, sab khair se jao.

Six hours later, Badi khala greets us

with a lavish spread of halwa puri.

Mash’Allah, Ammi beams, sinking into

a cloud of upholstery. You yell Aloo

chole, balle balle before blowing

honeyed giggles into slick, ghee-laced air.

We tuck in, pluck spiced morsels off floral

plates. Kiya baat hai, Abu croons, cradling

a peach donga. Abhi to neechay lag

gaya, Khala protests with creased cheeks as

you slide under the dining table to

trace the dry tributaries of her heels.

The next day, Chote mamu takes us to

Rani Bazaar on his puffed-up Vespa.

We hop over speed bumps, grey puffs of dust

engulfing us. He buys a gold kurta

for me and glittering pumps for you. You’re

delighted, deeming it your Eid outfit.

You spend the rest of the week pretending

to be royalty. The morning of our

return, you totter around the veranda,

gilded feet making concrete sing. Nana

jee saunters past with a weathered miswak,

an off-white dhoti draped around his waist.

He pauses to appraise you as I trace

chalky squares for stapu. Wah bhai wah, nai

jootay! Hand on hip, you quip, Abhi to

neechay lag gaye. He guffaws with such

force, Khala runs out mid-roti. That’s my

Apa, I say as the porch rejoices.

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