Mosaic Monologues
Shifting shadows
(Shouts down the stairs) ‘Hanna, Khalil! You can have ten minutes of telly time while Amma does this thing, okay? Hanna, remember to take turns with your brother.’
Ten minutes. That should be enough… I think (she says nervously). Okay, let’s have a look…
‘Full Name:’
Anika Meera Choudhry.
‘Date of Birth:’
Getting on a bit… not quite old enough for bingo nights, but too knackered for TikTok.
‘Nationality:’
Bangladeshi. Though Mam still insists I’m not properly Bangladeshi because I don’t like fish curries that incinerate your tongue, and I can’t pronounce the days of the week in Bangla. But whose fault is that, eh
(Mumbles the next two questions while typing.)
‘Contact Details (Address, email, phone number):’
Okay…
‘Do you have the right to study in the UK?’
Yup.
Urgh, ‘Qualifications:’
I got As and Bs, but do you reckon they actually check? Maybe I say I got all top marks. That’s what my parents still believe anyway. Yeah let’s go with that.
Okay, real questions now.
‘Tell us about yourself.’
Right. Let’s see… I’m Anika Choudhry. Thirty-five. Mother of two. Khalil’s obsessed with dinosaurs; Hanna eats butter straight from the tub. Wife to a man who is married to the gym. Fashion graduate from what feels like another life. Dreamer, mostly. Doer, occasionally. Juggler of worlds, every. single. day. And somehow still forgets where the keys are. (She types. Pauses. Deletes.) Let me try again. I’m the one who keeps the peace. Makes sure everyone’s plate is full, the laundry’s done, the smiles are convincing. The one who stitched together a last-minute World Book Day costume out of scraps, tissue paper and a glue gun. The one who believed a love story could hold everything.
‘Describe a project you are proud of.’
Oh man… It has to be the Batman costume I made out of a bin bag because Bilal forgot to order Khalil’s outfit for a nursery fancy dress. I sent my son to school in a bin bag—can you believe it? You couldn’t make it up. Teachers loved it though. One even said, ‘Your mam could be an artist.’
(She pauses, thoughtful.)
Could be? I am an artist. Right? I think?
‘Please provide a link to your online portfolio or upload samples of your work.’
(She giggles nervously.) Hmm… Do Hanna’s colouring books count? Erm, I’ve posted a few bits on Instagram. I might have my GCSE sketchbooks in the loft somewhere… I’ll just upload photos from the voluntary art project I did for the community summer festival. They were actually pretty good. I used fabric from my auntie’s old saris to make hanging mandalas. Did it all while being 7 months pregnant with Khalil too. That bit alone deserves an award if you ask me.
Next. ‘Describe a time you overcame adversity.’
Does trying to introduce your Nigerian boyfriend to your Bangladeshi parents count? ‘Overcame’ is generous. It was more like endured, dodged, and politely battled. Mam called him ‘that sprinting boy’ for two years. Asma Khala stopped talking to me for six months. Said I brought shame. Apparently there’s no room for running shoes at the dinner table. Apparently black and brown don’t mix too well—but not in a racist way. No, never. (She rolls her eyes.)
But we did it. We got through. I wore red and gold and made Mam’s biryani with shaking hands. We made it work. We made it beautiful, in our own mismatched, mosaic way. (She smiles. Then it fades.) But somewhere between bottle feeds and Bilal’s training camps in Loughborough, I stopped sketching. Boxed up my sketchbooks behind old babygros, told myself it was just a pause. So maybe the better question is: ‘Describe a time you lost a part of yourself — and what you did about it.’ I’m still answering that one. Supporting Bilal? He runs before the sun comes up. Gym. Coach. Track. Protein shakes. I iron his kits. Do bedtime solo. Again. And again. I’m proud of him. I am. He’s chasing gold. He’ll be the pride of Nigeria when he makes it. And I’ll never begrudge him that. But sometimes, I wonder… am I in love with the man or the memory of us? Am I devoted, or just running on autopilot?
(She sighs.) Anyways…
‘How do you balance personal and professional commitments?’
Ha! You don’t. You prioritise. Most days, you’re not even on the list. You ration time like sugar in the war. Give your hours away like freebies at Eid. If you’re lucky, you get five minutes before bed to remember who you used to be. Even then, you get blamed for staying up. Like keeping a scrap of yourself alive is a crime.
‘Why this scholarship and why now?’
(Long pause.)
Why now? I don’t know ‘why now’! What am I doing? Maybe Khala was right—maybe it is too late. I’ve barely got time to breathe as it is. How am I going to study on top? Even if they accept me, where would I even start? The fashion world’s moved on so much since uni. (She exhales. Shakes it off.) No. No. You’re doing this, Anika. We talked about this. Yes, I spoke to myself in the mirror this morning. Put on my best Tariq voice and said:
(In Tariq’s voice) ‘The fashion world has already gone to shits, sis. It’s not like you can make it worse.’
(She chuckles softly.) He used to say that whenever I was stressed at uni. When I’d panic about getting it wrong. He’d make light of my struggles, which wound me up so badly, then say something totally daft and make me cry with laughter. He’d say I took life too seriously. I’d tell him, he didn’t take it seriously enough.
(Pause.)
I wish he didn’t love them fast cars so much. Maybe he’d still be here. I wouldn’t be left to figure out how to be a twin, without a twin. It’s been two years. A part of me died that night too. The part that believed in myself. Because he believed in me more than I ever did. We’d sit for hours talking about my ideas. He made me promise to let him model my line when it launched. Wanted that chiselled jawline on the cover of Vogue. We were supposed to do this together, his face, my brains. (Takes a breath.) If he were here now, he’d probably grab me by the shoulders and give me a proper shake.
‘Come on, Anika! You need to stop millennials from bringing back flared trousers.’
Ahh… he’d be fuming to see them in every shop window now. Don’t even know what his beef with flares ever was. I found a photo the other day. He’s wearing one of my sample tops that went totally wrong. The sleeves were tiny—looked like he was in a blouse. Khalil started crying because he thought Tariq was taking my clothes. Hanna saw me staring at the photo and asked, ‘Amma, did you ever fix that shirt for Tariq Mama?’
(Long pause. Takes a deep breath. Shakes herself off.)
Okay. (Clears throat.) Okay, come on. We started this, so we finish it.
‘Why this scholarship and why now?’
Because life’s too short to wait for permission. Because I’ve held everyone else’s dreams in both hands—fed them, bathed them, ironed them. Because I’m done being stuck in the past. Done hiding behind Bilal’s shadow. Done thinking I can’t do it without Tariq. Maybe it’s time I picked it back up—knowing he’d be proud I’m trying. I had a fire in my belly back then. A vision. Grit. I miss it. I miss me. Not to be who I was—but who I could become. A newer version. A better one. I love being a mam. I love being a wife. But I want to exist for me, too
(She looks at the screen. Reads aloud.) ‘What are your career aspirations?’
I want to design again. Launch a line that threads together my heritage and my now. Bright silks. Bold cuts. Stories stitched into every seam. A boutique tucked between a curry house and a corner shop. Mannequins wrapped in fabrics that speak both Sylhet and Geordie. I want my kids to see me step into something that’s mine. Truth is… I never stopped dreaming. I still sketch on receipts, napkins, the kids’ colouring books. Ideas nudge me when I’m folding laundry. The fire never died. It just dimmed under the weight of everything else. From living in Bilal’s shadow. From being just Khalil’s Amma.
(Her hand hovers over the mouse.) Some days, I hear this voice—maybe Mam’s, maybe mine:
‘You’re lucky, Anika. You have a good life. Why ask for more?’
But maybe the better question is: ‘Why not ask for more?’
Mam used to tell me how she dreamt of being a singer, how her mam, my nani, used to write poetry. And when I’d ask her why they never pursued it, she’d shrug it off and say, “Eetha, colfona amra lagi nai.’ (These dreams are not for us.)
It makes me sad that so many women in my lineage got left in the shadows, with their dreams tightly tied in the fabric that draped over their shoulders. Just imagine how much art, how much talent never made it to the world because our women weren’t given opportunities. And I know I’ve used Bilal’s career as an excuse, for too long. But it’s not just him. It’s me too. Yes, being the wife of an aspiring Olympian is bloody hard, but it doesn’t have to cost me my dreams. And maybe I’m finally ready to accept that it’s time to start breaking generational cycles.
‘What story do you want your legacy to be?’
Oh gosh… I want my kids to talk about me with a full heart. To say, ‘She chased dreams.’ I want Hanna to know that being a woman isn’t a curse. Or a burden. But a blessing. That being a mother doesn’t mean disappearing. I want her to know she is allowed to want things. Big, messy, beautiful things. That she is safe to take risks that excite her.
‘Is there anything else you would like to include in your application?’
I don’t know if you’ll accept me. I don’t know if I’m too late. Or too small. Or too much of what no one wants. But I know this: Today, I chose not to disappear. Today, I chose to take up space again. (She smiles. Small, but real.) And tomorrow? I’ll keep choosing. Okay… (Takes a deep breath.) You got this. Submit.
© Tahmina Ali
Tahmina Ali
Tahmina Ali is a British-Bangladeshi, Geordie spoken word poet, producer, facilitator and creative practitioner.
