A Spoonful of Healing
The throbbing always worsened at my temples. My mother would lay my head on her lap and press my forehead; her linen kameez, smelling faintly of scented lotion, rubbed against my cheek. Her soft, plump thumbs circled my temples. Whispered du’as floated from her lips, each word woven with intention. Was there a way to feel any more loved? There was, apparently. And it came in the form of a thick golden syrup on a spoon. This concoction of honey, blackseed oil, and turmeric was a form of love I resisted.
“Beta, you’ll feel better much faster, just listen to me and swallow it.”
“But it tastes funny!” I protested, scrunching my nose.
“That’s why it’s healing. It’s supposed to be like that.” Her voice held a patience I only now realize was hard-earned.
After futile bickering, I gave in, swallowing the grainy syrup on the spoon. It burned in a way that wasn’t unpleasant, just foreign. Exhausted from my fever and my rebellion, I plopped back on the couch, the folds of my blanket swallowing me whole. I’d hear her in the kitchen, boiling lentils for khichdi, checking in with me between tasks, her touch a remedy in itself. Only now can I look back and appreciate her exhaustion—the sacrifices within every small act of care, the countless remedies that healed me throughout my childhood.
It’s 12:45 a.m., or maybe it’s 2 a.m., when I see my daughter’s shadow standing above me in my room. One hand covers her mouth, the other hangs limp by her side. Her small, trembling voice cuts through the dark: “Mama, I, I don’t feel good.”
Before I can fully process, instinct takes over. We shuffle to the bathroom, her warm forehead pressed to my side. This time, miraculously, the vomit lands in the goal zone—a victory in our years-long battle against projectile messes. Relief mixes with fatigue as her Baba holds her hair back, stroking her little shoulders. Once the minimal clean-up is done, we bring her a glass of bright red Pedialyte, complete with a swirly straw for easy sipping.
Together, we recite Surah Al-Fatiha for shifaa, our voices blending in the quiet of the night. The words wrap around us, comforting and steadying. Soon, she’s asleep again, her breathing even, a bucket by her side just in case. I stay awake longer than I need to, watching her, marveling at how these moments repeat through generations—love distilled into care, care transformed into remedy.
The beauty and rewards of offering healing remedies are loudest in the ways we show up, even when our bodies beg for rest, even when the hours are small and our patience thinner than we’d like. It’s the legacy of whispered du’as, grainy syrups, and cool cloths upon our foreheads.
When I press my thumbs against my daughter’s temples, her eyes seem as though she’ll remember this moment for years to come. Perhaps the smell of my night robe will someday pull her back to these sleepless nights, reminding her of the remedies that flowed from my love, and my mother’s love before me.
