I see my shadow lengthen With the ebbing of the day I feel it suck up all the sadness From the bowels of the earth With its purple, glistening hoard Of melancholia and hopelessness I move ceaselessly, restlessly I will my never-stopping feet To sever the tortured bond That my swelling shade has formed With the darkening world around But my shadow just spreads out Ever further on the ground It suckles at night’s dreary breast Absorbing all her suffering So that nothing should remain In earth’s mighty store of pain With its ravening tentacles My twilight shadow reaches in Never faltering in its aim It will not stop it will not rest Until it has gorged itself On a sorrow that is infinite It’s bloated edges Endlessly dredge The gloom from earth’s wounded veins My shadow ripples and it writhes Waning only when daylight Breaks the tragic coupling Of the shades and sadness of nighttime.
Do you remember when you felt the blood Gushing through your body You felt it etch into your being All the kindness, courage and love That you thought you could ever feel And your heart sang!
Do you remember how your breath Caught in your throat. The sheer shock Of those emotions rocking you inside You felt so overwhelmed that your tear ducts Felt the strain. You blinked your wet eyes And your heart sang!
You looked straight ahead The wave kept rising in your chest You felt like you were everything That you were meant to be. Your atoms ricocheted With those around you. Nature played A little bit of handball as she caught Your atoms in her hands and passed her own to you And your heart sang!
Do you remember feeling like this was The perfect moment in your time In your space, in your place And everything had come together that day to remind you That your heart was aligned with all That defined you as the happiest version of yourself And oh your heart, it sang!
You don’t remember - not really. Neither do I. I mean I remember the warmth in my being, the love flowing out In waves, in rivers. A oneness with the essence of the world But beyond that, I can’t remember; I can’t evoke the feeling Something has gone awry, something has been lost Along the way But I still see its ghost flitting Vaguely passing before my eyes when I am still But my heart, it doesn’t sing.
I wake up, my mind numb, my legs feeling Like 10 kg bags of wet cement Have been tied to my ankles; weighting Me down, ripping a dent With my name in the fabric of the universe. I think briefly of yesterday, it was the reverse Of the state of my mind, as it ties and it binds Me today as if to remind Me that nothing ever is permanent - No. Nothing stays forever, it isn’t meant to. Charmed luck, joy, good health and peace Hardship, tragedy, anxiety and disease They come, they take their turns at the wheel Some lasting longer, some just touch you and flee. I wake up, my mind numb, my body feeling like lead But tomorrow I’m hoping I won’t feel so dead.
It is feeling like the world has overcome You body and soul and then some It’s like drowning in a bottomless sea Gasping, gasping, trying to breathe Sputtering, choking reaching for air Crashing, thrashing limbs everywhere; It’s feeling the whole world closing in Vision blurring, darkness descending. It’s being sure that many endings are near: Of wanting, of living and even of fear; It’s feeling the numbness spread like a pall Binding you, blinding you even as you fall Into the swirling, whirling abyss Of dead emotions; of nothingness.
It’s finally seeing the smallest of gleams Picking the darkness at its hoary seams Little by little the flicker grows bright Ever so slowly it pierces the night. Your leaden heart too warms in the heat Resuming its vital, pulsating beat; You rise to the surface on a rip tide You’re thawing and warming on the inside. You break the surface of your despair As your throttled lungs fill up with air; Gasping, gasping you take in a breath Sputtering and choking you hold on to the thread Of the world coming back within reach; Hope on strong wings, has ended the siege
She gathers you up in her healing arms Anointing you with her soothing balms Freeing you, steeling you so that you may walk Another day with strength and love in your heart.
I’ve seen the colours of loneliness I’ve seen their moldering faces I’ve seen them fill the keening voids Of our broken, scattered places. It’s the grey of the sky just before it descends In blinding cascades Of granite and slate While waiting for that one special friend of the heart Who’s gone an infinite distance apart. Gone forever; not coming back. It’s the darkening shades of smoke and ash Stifling and choking. It’s emotional whiplash.
It’s the curdled russet and clotted yellow Of dying leaves Still on the trees. It’s the hope that once blossomed, Now just a vanishing dream; Like fading delusions; And fractured illusions. Like wasting ivy, still clinging tightly To the mottled, purple-bruised spaces within.
It’s the decayed red of old blood That has flowed and then congealed From scarred old wounds In the fallow fields Of the innermost corners of your being. It’s the throbbing new cuts of remembrance-pain That sear you with their scarlet heat Scorching your insides until there remain Only the rust-dripping embers of defeat.
It’s these mottled hues and grainy textures Of mangled hearts and hurting souls Its the piercing, stinging, strangling tightness In the pit of the stomach; in the back of the throat. In the end, it is all of this That make up the tinctures of loneliness That fill up all our sad and desolate spaces.
Asha adjusted her bra after a final pat on its other, non-fleshy contents; the fifteen thousand rupees now nestling securely in its pendulous grasp. It was the day she had to drop off the rent at her landlord’s house on her way back from work. She smiled widely and catching her reflection in the little mirror on the wall, became at once guarded, gathering up the grin into a coy little smile. Dark spirits were everywhere and she knew innately through generations of stories and behavioural legacies that she couldn’t be overt with the profoundness of her joy. Bad omens had a propensity of springing from the happiest of moments.
Even so, she walked to work with a spring in her step. She was a short, portly woman so that buoyancy itself was a purveyor and teller of her bliss to even the least discerning of spectators. In her mind though, while she had to watch herself outwardly, her thoughts were free to roam unfettered in her secret spaces of delight. Finally! Finally the day that she and her husband had been dreaming of for the last 25 years was around the corner: their eldest son, Danish was graduating from university with a Bachelors degree. He would change his world; his sister’s future; their combined fortunes. She would quit her job as a maid and her husband would stop cleaning the sewage lines he’d been wallowing knee-deep in for the last two decades. The smell never quite washed off his skin now. They’d build their own little house; no more scraping and scrounging every month to meet the rent – that monster that loomed large with ravening regularity outside their tiny two room hovel.
Her breath caught in her throat as she allowed her imagination to revel in the bountifulness of precious opportunity and new beginnings. She looked towards the sky with a little prayer on her lips whispering a soft Hai Bhagwan … to the gods and goddesses, this time for their unconditional beneficence. Her prayers were usually modest, economical, always allowing for the fickleness of fate and the peevishness of deities. She never asked for the requiescence of impossible dreams; only the rendering of realistic milestones such as they were in the thorny existence of her people. But this time, she had put in the work; For 25 years, 10 hours every day; of her blood, sweat and tears; of washing, sweeping and cooking for others. This time, her life’s main purpose would be done when her son graduated from university. She could do with every ounce of celestial magnanimity and largesse in the completion of this, her most blessed enterprise.
‘Walaikum salam. Kya baat hai? Aaj bari khush lag rahi ho’(1)said her employer as Asha walked into the apartment, her face flushed with her recent cerebration. She smiled shyly and decided that the home where she had been working for the last five years was as devoid of ill omens as a place could be, and proceeded to share her good news. Her employer, Baji or older sister as Asha and the vast majority of domestic staff called their female employers, had always been good to her and most of all, was undiscriminating. Unlike the vast masses, she was surprisingly unaffected by the faith of those who cooked and cleaned for her. That was probably one of the main reasons for the longevity of Asha’s current employment. She glowed in the rare telling of an even rarer propitious event in her life. Her Baji was genuinely happy for her and told her that she was expecting a box of Asha’s special home made gulab jamun* the day of Danish’s graduation.
Besides being the curator of discreet, precious dreams, Asha was an accomplished cook and was the designated neighbourhood sweetmeat maker for festivals like Diwali and Holi. Her services were also sought out during Eid celebrations by those whose gastronomic inclinations outweighed their fear of moral transgression: If she cooked in their homes, in their vessels, the designated sin allocation was greatly reduced. And then, there were other prayerful ways to wash away such lesser impieties …
Asha got to work, her mind far away in fields of her own dreams. During her short break for lunch, she pulled out her phone to look at he her son’s smiling face on the display screen. He’d been at the front and center of her mind today, pulling at her heart strings and filling her thoughts. She suddenly recalled the words of a relative who imagined himself to be something of a fortune teller. He’d said, Danish would he famous- his name would be in the newspapers …
She smiled indulgently. She’d be happy with his uneventful graduation and an unremarkable transition into the cadres of bank officers that she saw driving to work every day. Rising every morning with their big dreams and fulfilling them in the cool sanctums of enterprise that towered on both sides of the I.I. Chundrigar road. They were resplendent in their suits and ties – Danish would be resplendent in his suit and tie! She felt a little shiver run up her spine as her one prodigious vision for her one son enveloped her in its fiery, explosive embrace.
Today she was leaving early to stop by the landlord’s and to visit the Punch Mukhi Hanuman Mandir in Soldier bazaar. Like all her compatriots, while she revered the entire deific gamut, she had her divine favourites too, and hers were Lords Shiva and Hanuman.
After a brief stop at her landlord’s house, with the month’s obligation fulfilled, she caught the W11 bus to Soldier bazaar and made her way to the temple. Even though it was a Thursday, the wide arched entryways into the temple were thronging with worshippers. The Maha Shivrathri* festival was approaching and while the actual event would take place at the Shiv Mandir in Umerkot a month from now, the regular petitioners like herself and the generally devoted were already faithfully marking time at their city temples. She had already asked her employer for a week off in March when she and her family would travel to the southern part of Sind to Amarkot as Asha and her community referred to the fort city among themselves; harking back to the days when the city was ruled by its Hindu founder Maharaja Amar Singh. It was one of the many little linguistic deviations that they held onto among themselves, from the Islamic recolouring of history in their now Islamic homeland. Despite the prevalent lack of formal education, these pithy historical and cultural facts had permeated through their community as a meaningful reminder that they were as much a part of the rich tradition and history of the land as their Muslim neighbours and rulers were. Rulers, because there was also still a vestigial sense of being the minority peasantry in someone else’s kingdom. But these were the visceral, unavoidable facts of being a part of the fabric of the country; and despite the ordinary and extraordinary odds, there were also glimmers and inklings of a better future. A future secured by their children and spearheaded by the tireless enterprise of their parents and grandparents.
Asha walked into the temple and sat down on the cool black and white tiles. She closed her eyes and folded her hands in supplication and prayer. She had to talk to the deities, beseech them, cajole them for their blessings; for their generosity and their kindness. This time, she had no bargaining chip to offer. She wanted the whole blessed profusion of her son’s graduation, job and future.
Asha remembered the incidents of the next two days in a haze of delirium and torment. It had been a sticker with a verse on it. Someone had put it on Danish’s text book. He had removed it and pasted it on the desk. And then … she couldn’t think beyond that sequence of events. It ratcheted through her head in an endless loop, protecting her and agonising her in turn. The innate self preservation instinct of a mother with another yet vulnerable, yet susceptible child, prevented her from recalling the entire tragedy. The tragedy that had transformed joyous anticipation and smiling fortunes into a cruel, heart-wrenching finale.
The local paper called it a “scuffle on university grounds triggered by a wilful act of blasphemy”. While Danish survived the savage mob that was out for blood-thirsty retributon, he was not spared the statutory penance of his act. And so, he was stripped of his university credentials and incarcerated for “desecration of the Quran”. With him he brought down the tenuous little edifice of dreams and aspirations of yet another generation of his family.
In the wake of the tragedy, Asha’s husband had called her employer saying she was ill and would be away for 10 days. Now they also had to contend with keeping this new born scandal under wraps from employers, neighbours and random justice wielders.
Asha went back to work after a week. It took her those many days to pick up the broken pieces of her heart and put them away in some dark corner where no one, not even she could see them. She had to go on. There was 12 year old Ramesha to look after. She would have to uproot and reseed her dreams, her prayers and her hopes. She would have to go on.
‘Kya haal hai Asha? Theek ho abhi?’(2) asked her Baji with a look of concern on her face. Asha responded automatically with the alacrity born of the restlessness of time and the lightning glance of never-to-return opportunities of her world.
‘Gulab jamun ka intezar hai – Inshallah, abhi itni dair nahi rahi’(3), she added smiling. Asha touched her heart as if in placation, humble recall, while the broken pieces inside huddled a little more into her grieving, weeping spaces.
(1): ‘What’s up? You’re looking very happy today!’
* Gulab Jamun: A milk-solid based sweet from the Indian subcontinent.
* Maha Shivrathri: A major festival in Hinduism, the solemn occasion marks a remembrance of overcoming darkness and ignorance in life and the world. It is observed by remembering Shiva and chanting prayers, fasting, and meditating on ethics and virtues such as honesty, non-injury to others, charity, forgiveness, and the discovery of Shiva.
(2): ‘How are you Asha? Are you recovered now?’
(3): ‘I’m still waiting for the gulab jamun. God willing, it can’t be long now’
We have all, at some time or another been overwhelmed, overpowered, bested by our grief, anxiety and wretchedness. At those times, some of us have also been lucky enough to have that one place where we have, for a while, found some degree of quietude and peace. This is a tribute to those secret little places and spaces of comfort and healing in our lives.
There is this wooden bench I like It’s not fancy; quite the common type. Cloaked in by the dappled canopy Of a gracefully pirouetting Mara tree, It sits in the park like a dear old friend It’s well-worn embrace ever welcoming. A young couple walks up, caught in the grips of wrath Love is lost; it’s the wretched aftermath; Words are exchanged until the fury’s spent Frustration - Anxiety - Sadness - Silence. Then they sit down on the wooden bench ... Gradually, muscles relax and nerves untense. Even if it is a passing interlude, Loads are lightened; hearts are soothed.
Wild flowers grow lushly around its feet Bobbing bright heads to Earth’s vital beat. The bench sits there like a quiet friend It’s well-worn seat ever welcoming. A man sits down in a state of unease Holding on to his hat in an errant breeze. He picks up his phone and looks at the screen; The unlit glass reflects the tranquil scene ... He looks up and around him his brow somewhat eased Fleeting albeit, he’s found his moment of peace.
Songful birds and their terrestrial friends Roam warbling and chittering around the bench; Hoping for a serendipitously fallen treat They browse busily around the seat. A wheelchair-bound man looks up at an overcast sky; His female companion already has water in her eyes. They sit side by side in worlds of their own Reminisnce weighs heavy of days that are gone ... A mynah trills as a light drizzle falls And a sweet petrichor briefly dispels the pall. The man looks at her, takes her hand and she smiles For now they’re alright; tomorrow is still a while.
I too have sat in Nature’s restoring arms On that bench where she weaves her alchemical charms. I too have unburdened my hopes and my fears I too have laid my bursting heart bare; And I have heard her soothing murmurs That have quietened my deepest despair. I’ve looked into her soft eyes from that corner in the park For a time, my soul too has emerged from the dark; The clouds have parted; the sun has shone through And I’ve breathed more easily, sitting on that wooden pew.
You ask me if I’m alright ... I am alright, but the stabbing ache in my heart is not alright.
You ask me if I’m ok ... I am ok, but the stranglehold of despair around my throat is not ok
You ask me if I’m fine ... I am fine, but the icy grip of fear in my soul is not fine.
I need to remove the steely shards from my heart, one piercing sliver at a time; Even if a hole, an abysmal gorge remains, I can learn to fill it with other things, better things.
I need to loosen the malevolent grip of hopelessness, one hoary, gnarled finger at a time; And learn to open myself up to the comfort of a quiet, gentle embrace.
I need to thaw the icicles of dread, one knifelike lance at a time; and learn to warm my soul with the simple heat of being alive.
I know that I need to learn to separate my angst from my being; learn to put the wretchedness to bed So that every so often, I am able to feel whole, happy and free.
And so my friend, when you ask me if I am well I say I am well, because I’m learning to take care of the most fragile parts of myself.
Mahvash Mohtadullah - The Roaming Desi 