The Cover Story

I’m glad I was given the opportunity by Finishing Line Press to contribute my own cover art. This cover would have been shot in Pakistan where I, along with a photographer-friend would have directed its execution from the dry bank of a creek, with a model treading water, but the pandemic decided that every time I booked a flight to the motherland it would surge like a tsunami causing decimation of travel plans and much hand-wringing, so there I was – up to my armpits in lake-water, algae between my toe, disturbing the fishy slumber of bluegill and minnows at 4:50 am in service of a cover worthy of my debut poetry collection.

The wonderful Beth Anne Anderson of Anderson Photography shot the cover. Beth Anne and I had a couple of meetings to discuss the concept — I had a very clear idea of what I wanted, down to the angles. We discussed mood, light, vibe, message. My OCD had a whole folder of pictures I had collected for months for her to look at for reference. Her grasp on what I wanted was intuitive and masterly and I love her work.

Beth Anne arrived in the dark for setup, wearing high rubber boots in case she had to wade out in the water. I was in a saffron kameez and white shalwar. my favourite red chunri dupatta in the clay gharaa I carried. Living on the lake, I know that every sunrise is different, the measure of light hitting water can be different. It can make the water look murky or clear. We would have a 15-minute window between absolute dark and bursting sun to capture the half-light, mellow stillness I wanted. This urgency was further compounded by the fact that starting the next day we would have rain for a week and I had deadlines to meet.

I had to be in the water while it was still dark so that no precious time was lost as the sky started to lighten. We also wanted to give time for any sediment that my ingress into the lake would bring up to settle back down and for any wavelets to subside. Mercifully, none of the neighbors ventured out. I would have had to wave from the lake and identify myself which would have led to awkward speculation about why Ms. Khwaja takes fully-clothed dips in the lake at uncivilized hours. Not quite how I would like to feature in dinner table conversations.

I sloshed around in sodden wear until directed to optimal distance from the gharaa and chunri on shore, and settled in to maintain my position with a stillness that would do any Navy Seal mounting an ambush proud. I was in an awkward crouch the whole time, exhibiting an absence of motion much like the garden gnome in my neighbor’s shrubbery. I was one with the water. I am the lake. I am the lake.

Before the night starts to lift, you hear the birds. Low, intermittent cheep-cheeps that pierce the dark and swell into a concerted twitter as the sky goes from obsidian to cobalt. I am facing East, and when the first light emerges, everything else falls away. The water starts changing colors by the second, the play of light on its surface is mesmerizing. Not to sound cliché but I feel a profound, pervading peace. I forget Beth Anne on the shore, quiet with her camera; I forget the discomfort of my crouched position. I don’t have to worry about keeping still so as not to disturb the surface of the lake, because I AM still – totally caught and wholly suspended in this moment.

My outstretched hands are hovering an inch above the water but just as dawn begins to break, I lightly tap the water with my forefingers. Concentric circles emanate on either side of me and suddenly I am the center of an infinity sign. Beth Anne captures the moment. I have my cover.