The Rock from Oman

A memory vignette from the land I will always call home

One of the most beautiful rock finds I have picked up in Oman

Dear readers,

The other day, while rearranging the many objects that live on my desk, I paused to contemplate one in particular: a rock which sits on a blue and white patterned plate. It is a semi-opaque white crystalline rock that I picked up from a wadi bed in Oman. For those who may be new followers and readers, I grew up and lived in Oman for many years; my most precious childhood memories involve climbing hills and walking through dry wadis, searching for and collecting rocks. I collected this rock during my last trip to the country that I will always call home. My parents, who still lived there then, were planning to move away in few months and I was unsure when I would return - so I got myself a rock memento. As it happened, given that I left in January 2020, little knowing how the year would implode and dramatically shape our lives, I am so glad that I packed this memory into my luggage.

Miss the blue skies and hillscape *so* much

My family and I were on a road trip in the Omani interiors, like the countless we had taken over the years; even after I moved away, we would always take the time out to embark on one road trip-picnic day on my visits back. This time, en route to heading towards the coast, we took a picnic break to sit in the shadow of one of the numerous hills we encountered during the trip. As my family busied themselves with taking out the food and drinks, I found myself wandering along the stony wadi bed, retreating into my childhood memories, my eyes constantly hunting for unusual, striking rocks which I could add to my then burgeoning collection. These rocks carried millions, if not billions, of years of memories, of a time when Earth was a young, fiery planet, bearing little resemblance to the age-worn creature we knew today.

The rock immediately leaped out to me due its crystalline facets, iridescent in the winter sunlight. As I held the rock up against the cloudless cerulean blue sky, I glimpsed in its bottled light memories of numerous picnics taken in wadis, rock collecting expeditions and the minimal, hilly Omani landscape. I saw in the rock a memory of one last farewell picnic; it was also a memory of the child that I had once been, so immersed in my universe of rocks that I spent hours thinking, reading, and writing about them. It had been decades since I had been that child; it had been so so long since I had the space, place, or opportunity to walk aimlessly in wadis, searching for rocks, entirely immersed in that moment, oblivious to everything around me. But for this pocket of time, I could inhabit my childhood once again - and I was so grateful for it.

The sky of my childhood

A month later, I boarded my flight to Bangalore, where I now lived and returned home, the rock accompanying me back to my home. I arranged it upon my desk which I have often likened to as a shrine, given that it held all that was beloved and dear to me. The desk was my personal cabinet of curiosities, a portrait of me in objects. However, every time I sat at my desk to write or paint or create, the rock particularly stood out and caught my eye. Many years ago, when I was in school, I had read Judy Blume’s novel, As Long As We Are Together, where one of the characters, Alison brings a special rock to school in her backpack, a rock equivalent of a comfort blanket. Perhaps, this rock was my comfort stone. I would find myself picking it up, turning it over and over in my hands, observing the Omani soil grooved into its facets. No matter how often I cleansed the rock under running water, the soil never dislodged, firmly adhering to the surface. Perhaps, that soil was never meant to go away: it was too deeply embedded in the rock, just like how Omani earth and landscape had powerfully imprinted themselves upon my imagination and consciousness.

I will return to this landscape one day…

I have since then not returned to Oman. The rock sits on my desk still.

The rock is not just a rock: it is a portal to home, a beautiful, tangible, memory forever keeping alive all the selves I once was and will always be.

Till next time,

Priyanka

**

End notes:

Do you also have a comfort object that you hold dear? I would love to know.

You may also enjoy reading

A personal favorite piece of mine is Oman is Mars: An Alien All Along, an essay I published in The Common literary journal about third culture kid identity, geology, growing up in Oman, and Mars of all things:) I loved reminiscing and writing at length about my rock collecting pursuits as a child among other things.

All through my childhood and well into my adulthood, I often visited Al Khod wadi nearby to my home and to this day, when I hear or read the word, wadi, I associate it with this particular one. I visited it often post rains (which used to be a rare occurrence in Oman although climate change has altered that, sigh), the wadi bed becoming a gushing stream, the water pouring down from the mountains to gather in rock pools, where tiny little stone-coloured fish would shimmy about; however, I also liked it when it returned to its stony gravel desert self, the elements singularly beautiful in their starkness and bleakness. I wrote a poem about it inspired by a visit I took one summer evening years ago, published in Ric journal.