There’s a girl in the sunset Her hair is ablaze Her dupatta streams In the arid breeze I can’t see her face I catch my breath She stands there still, so still I see the horizon seethe and rage Scorch her in its red-hot rampage I close my eyes I’m afraid to look Afraid to see the heavens burn Afraid to see the ashes blown Of the girl that is standing there alone
But then
My stinging eyelids fly open, I see She’s still there She looks back at me The blaze of the sun Now a shimmering red Halo around her head Like a crown. She won’t go down When her world careens When her world burns all around Grey smoke rising from the sea Of charred, asphyxiated dreams She stands there serene She gathers the light around her being She smiles, she gleams She is the fire queen.
Reading from my book of short stories, “THE GIRL WITH THE PAISLEY DUPATTA”. The book is available at Sarasavi, Barefoot, Jam fruit Tree, Expographics and Pendi in Sri Lanka and at Readings, Liberty Books and Paramount Books in Pakistan.
Many of the stories in this book are from outside the bell curve of our lives, embracing sensitive social elements that are spoken of either in subdued whispers or not at all: from the brutal vigilante justice dispensed in the name of religion in “The Gods of Fury”; to the harrowing custom of honour revenge in the “Sins of our Fathers”; to the patriarchal ruthlessness that so many young women are subjected to in the title story “The Girl with the Paisley Dupatta”.
Some of the other stories are of women and men negotiating life, love, friendship, careers and tradition in the sometimes tumultuous and many times limiting folds of their families and their communities: from the enterprising love affair of 61 year old Nighat in “Love in Rawalpindi”; to the shenanigans of a dancing queen in “Riotous Love”; to the complicated friendship between two middle aged unmarried society girls in “Days of Purgatory”.
This is for the ladies. Amidst all the funniness abounding in the verse, there is a subtle message of self love and self reliance.
Here’s hoping that we can always read between the literal and figurative noisy lines that may be thrown at us in the name of love. And that our peace of mind and our sense of self worth always supersede other enterprises of the liver (jigar) and the heart!
No offence to my male family, friends and acquaintances - these are truth-telling times!
He said I love you Like I have never loved another I said you’re 48 and you’re still Looking for that perfect other?
Surely you’ve felt something in that realm You have walked down lovers lanes Were you perchance arm in arm With your tonic and your gin? And not a woman whom you’d consider A partner and a friend No, she was always just a trip A means towards an end Each bedecked your evenings out The “I love yous” that left your lips Were whispered as sweet nothings In between your boozy sips And now you tell me that You’re in love with me too Except it’s not your usual form You don’t know what’s happened to you! Maybe your three-month romances Would extend to five with me But the Shallow Hal* in you, pal Is still waiting to count to three And then your extra special Trademark escape artistry Will take center stage It’ll be the same old page From your book of Love for Free
That day he said I love you Like I have never loved before I said dear boy you wouldn’t know true love If it speared you in your gall bladder
…. and why I am undoubtedly the man of your dreams!”
* Shallow Hal: A 2001 Hollywood Rom-Com in which Hal, a shallow man who only dates attractive women, falls in love with Rosemary, after being hypnotized to see the inner beauty of women, not knowing that she is obese.
I laugh unabashedly, from the belly out Someone has said something absurd They all watch me in derision and doubt This woman who shouldn’t be seen or heard She speaks! What social license does she bear? She’s no debutante, she’s no political heir Yet she comes to these exclusive soirées And instead of blurring, fading away Into the background, this upstart lets down her hair
I walk out gaily, dressed like a queen I bump into my neighbour, the virulent Sameen Her face already garbed in a smug smile She says “Where to Maha? So dressed to kill?” I laugh loudly, her smile falters a bit “Just to the market, to get some things A shirt from Sapphire, two thootis* of kheer* A tub of it’s-none-of-your-business-my-dear Is there something you would like me to bring?
I’ve been alone these twenty five years But I’ve never been lonely, I decided that early I surmounted my doubts conquered my fears It wasn’t easy, it took a few years It took some lonesomeness, some vanishing acts From folks I called friends and even family who cracked Under the pressure of seeing me break out Of the box built for me by the socially devout But I dug in my heels, I wasn’t going back
Now there are friends and well wishers anew In all that chaff, I found these gems too They give me hope, they let me be me It’s been food for my soul, this honesty I know who I am and who I want to be And it’s not a reflection of what society Has plotted and planned for someone that swerves Through fate or design, outside its bell curve I’m contented, eccentric and oh so happy!
* Jawab-e-Shikwa: “Shikwa” (Complaint in Urdu) and “Jawab-e-Shikwa” (Response to Complaint) are poems written by the poet Mohammad Iqbal. They are known for their lyrical beauty and depth of thought
* Thooti: a small clay saucer in which some Pakistani and Indian desserts are sold in order to keep them cool and fresh
I’m alone … but I’m not really alone In all the ways that don’t matter That shouldn’t matter, I’m never alone In all the ways that I need someone In all the ways of being human I’m alone. There is no one.
It wasn’t always like this, this lonesomeness It came on slowly as time went by As I transitioned, nay devolved Dislodged from the blessed marital fold From a wife to a wretched divorcee From a daughter to a social deportee
I couldn’t be the woman he’d conceptualised His wife to be. Already fantasizing He was in heaven itself, spoilt for choice By the virgins lined up in waiting For him to pick one or four to be his own I got picked first, then I got disowned.
I’ve been alone these twenty years Fading ever more into the background As time trudges on with heavy treads My aura fades, my voice has no sound I tried to talk louder at first to be heard But the booming voices of the world Were louder still, my voice was drowned
Now I sit here alone marking time For when the cosmos sees fit to smile In a new welcome; in a final decline I see people but they see me not They saw me only when I came out Of the box, against the tide of tradition Then there was outrage, there was derision
I don’t go out anymore nor do I Try to be bigger than the box fitted for me I sit in it quietly, patiently Lonely oh so lonely … but not really In all the ways that shouldn’t matter Im not alone. They all watch me In all the ways that would make my heart sing I’m alone, waiting for the final curtain.
Why? She asks me why do I Not get to do the things that he Does so freely, so independently Cavorting with opportunities Expanding his experience of the world That we both live in, why just he?
Why? She asks me why am I Held back by you and the others The elders of the family The uncles and the brothers For my own good I’m told Walled in like Rapunzel, from the world?
Why? She asks me why can’t I Go out on my own. Why can’t I Even stay alone at home? Why have I been singled out Among my siblings as the burdensome one The ill-fated sister among the men?
Why? She asks me have you built These rules to limit my existence Holding me back, making me doubt Myself, my being, my purpose in life Strangling my dreams to always stand Centuries behind a boy or a man?
Why? She asks me why are you Complicit in this chauvinistic ruse? Why did you learn to become small To deliberately set yourself up for a fall? You were better than everyone A hero …. No a heroine!
You my mother, the architect Of dreams, of hopes and even homes Why did you let it all go? Why are you expecting me to do The same, be a wraith of myself A fragile decoration on the shelf
Until I become someone’s wife Until you can pass on the keys of my life To someone else … to some man else Why? She asks me as the tears well In eyes that see the truth of the world That see the expanse of her wretched road
That is why they killed them all off The babies, the girls born centuries ago There was divine justice in that Saving them from a world that sat In Judgement, in anger, in self pride Over girls that survived the infanticide
Tell me mother, why was I Born a woman into this life? Why was I born into this home My dignity defaced, my wings shorn? Why do I feel like to get a fair try At life, another life, I first must die?
A little disclaimer: This particular piece is not a critique of the institution of marriage itself, but the warped manner in which it is used to keep young women in check. To prevent them from breaking through the heavily-manned barriers created for them by society.
Yes, I waited a great big while For my knight in shining armour to arrive To sweep me off my impatient feet To finally enable me to start living my life
He came to our door, not on a steed That’s the whimsical stuff of fairytales Not really rigged for the 21st century The rest of the story I was sure prevailed
And so he came to our house in a car His mother and his sisters too I dutifully served them tea and samosas His eyes were fixed on me like glue
I tried to think of what I felt Did he stir something in my heart Did I feel a like-mindedness Was he the catalyst to my big, bright start!
The only thing rolling around in my head The only thing that I could really see Was the freedom to do all that I couldn’t now That sunlit pathway stretched ahead of me
I remember I smiled a little too much He grinned like a loon right back And so it was decided auspiciously That we’d be married in three months stat!
The wedding was done, it was T-plus six months And I sat at my dressing table I looked at the face of the woman in front Was she the euphoric lass of fables?
She looked back at me confusedly I pretended I didn’t quite read What her eyes were so desperately telling me That rabbit hole was just too deep
I looked away, this wasn’t the first time Of my inability to face the ghosts Of broken hearts and shattered dreams Of being deluded, of feeling lost
I had grown up believing with all my being That my best life lay ahead When I took on the mantle of someone’s wife That’s what age-old tradition said
But that’s not true, I now know When I can’t look at myself in the mirror There are shackles anew, I’m so confused My dreams couldn’t have been frailer
And so I wait yet again, but now Free of mythical notions and guiles For when I can find the courage to be Who I am, who I really have been all this while.
She’s probably flown in on her witch’s broom As her sullen starchiness sweeps the room She looks around her and she spies Young women having a good time She glowers at the girls No dupattas covering their shirts! The lines between her brows grow grim Huddling together like dowager twins Then they rise up in stark rebuke Clamouring, hammering “I’m judging you!”
He sits in the cafe looking around A smoking gun dangling from his mouth As he peers over the smoke It’s gnarled fingers like a cloak Hide the vileness in his eyes He stares at the woman who sits alone She ignores his lecherous stare He taps his gun, his yellow teeth bared Smoke-grey lips curl into an ugly “U” Leering, sneering “I’m judging you!”
This judiciary are the insidious dregs Of a society that has no legs No kind eyes. Their hearts are still Yet they sit there determined to fill Precious spaces in our lives With their hats and their beehives. They hold on to crass old ways As their own insecurities play Out an age old tune Croaking, choking “I’m judging you!”
Give not a hoot nor a call To them sitting in their Halls Of Judgement. They are not fit Not a thimble, not a whit! Stand your ground with those that will Force upon you their own bitter pills Calmly cut them down to size Look them in their jaundiced eyes When you spy their mottled souls Their power fades to judge you at all
Live your life how you will Reach for the stars, ride the wind May you always find your spark Even when all around you is dark Move away when you feel dragged Down, down; making you feel bad. Build within you your own compass Of dignity, courage and kindness So that the only one ever judging you Is YOU dear one, only ever you.
It is with a mixture of joy, some pride and truckloads of excitement that I announce the publishing of my second book – my book of short stories. This enterprise of the heart has been in the making for the past two years and has finally culminated into an anthology of tales.
It is said that shame dies when stories are told in safe places. THE GIRL WITH THE PAISLEY DUPATTA AND OTHER STORIES forges within its pages the sanctity and dignity that allow fragile stories to become powerful, purposeful, healing and exhilarating epics of personal courage and enterprise.
Many of the stories within this book are from outside the bell curve of our lives, and come straight from the truth-telling corners of the heart: from the brutal vigilante justice dispensed in the name of religion in “The Gods of Fury”; to the harrowing custom of honour revenge in the “Sins of our Fathers”; to the patriarchal ruthlessness that so many young women are subjected to in the title story “The Girl with the Paisley Dupatta”.
Others are stories of women and men negotiating life, love, friendship, careers and tradition in the sometimes tumultuous and many times limiting folds of their families and their communities: from the love affair of the enterprising 61 year old Nighat in “Love in Rawalpindi”; to the shenanigans of a dancing queen in “Riotous Love”; to the complicated friendship between two society girls in “Days of Purgatory”.
The last three stories in the book are a tribute to that most ingenious art form, political satire.
These tales will make you laugh, cry and ruminate in equal measure while niggling at the peripheries of conventional value systems.
The book is currently available at the Jam Fruit Tree bookstore on Galle Road in Colombo. I will try and make it available for friends and family in Pakistan and Dubai soon. To pre-order your copy of the book, please contact me here. It may take me some time, but I will try and get it to you 🤓
Mahvash Mohtadullah 