Raisa Aniqa

Husband, call the landscaper. I want a pond in our backyard. It will flow into itself through an

artificial stream, river, canal, I don’t know the body of water. That way it won’t be static. I want

Koi fish and decorative stones. A proper botanical garden, a tiny bridge. What do you think? It’s

sure to be a status symbol. Everyone will talk about it at the next barbecue.

I want water spinach. Kolmi shag, adinkotha. If they existed in America, they’d be weeds. In

Dhaka, they’re weeds. I’m not from Dhaka. Nobody knows where I’m from. You look at me

funny when I tell you the leaves are tasty. Drenched in mustard oil, I don’t understand how my

family calls them healthy. Mustard oil? We should get Hilsa fish. Grilled? The pond is in my

backyard, my backyard is in my motherland. The surrounding land is my grandfather’s. It’s less

of a pond, more of a lake. The kind that empties out into the Bay of Bengal through narrow

creeks, the kind teenage country boys catapult into. Like my father back in the day. Do you know

how to swim? I don’t. I was never taught.

Nor was my mother. She could’ve drowned in the freshwater of her mother’s womb, that’s what

made the lake. Or her mother’s, or her mother’s, or a whole lineage of women dead in childbed.

Her own water was salty. Talking to her leaves me dehydrated. Water spinach. Weeds that grow

on the side of ponds and roads. Those will satisfy my thirst in the New York summer heat. Or

maybe you will, you all-American boy. The pond could have water lilies, lotus, what’s the

English translation, what’s the difference. Lily pad? Shapla phool. I’ll stir fry the stems for you,

so long as you place the pink flower behind my ear. Do I look pretty? Exotic?

My aunt has a pond in her backyard. No, next to her backyard, because her backyard is a garden

in the middle of suburbia, a plot growing taro, luffa, hyacinth bean, adinkotha. The lake isn’t

hers, just plain, a ditch for collecting rainwater. I’ve only ever seen it fully dried up. It’s never

mud, only grass.

But if you don’t want to, we could just get a pool. Lay down brick for a patio, buy a couple

chairs. But can I have my garden, in your country? Can my weeds lay their roots in your soil?

Yours, even though you say ours. Please, can I damage your ecosystem with my invasiveness?

That’s how I was taught to be American.