(
1 )
In
the sleepless night, in the darkness
As
thick as her own sorrow,
Perhaps
she is reading the Koran in lamplight.
Quietly
she rises and moves into the room
Where
lies the hard bed on which I used to sleep,
Silently,
without noise, she touches the pillow,
As
she used to touch my head when I was young.
She
would be startled if someone found her out,
She
would blush, and with shy smile
Return
to her seat near the lamp,
And
begin to read the Holy faith again,
Her
tremulous voice sending ripples
Into
the thick darkness of the night.
Perhaps
her mind would travel
And
two tears form in her palsied eyes ;
And
she would raise her hands in fearless faith,
In
total abandon.
And
offer a prayer for a flower, a dove and a sheaf of corn.
(
2 )
Sit
on the bed, close to me, place your hand on my
forehead…
Yes,
it burns, my whole body burns ;
I
have a fever ; the world burns, it hasn’t rained
for days ;
Listen
into my bosom –it’s dry ;
There’s
no rain in the sky, no rain on the earth ;
I
burn, the earth burns ;
But
I have things to tell you, wishes to tell…
It
will rain next year, or the next, somebody it will ;
And
then the plant at the doorstep will flower, I
planted it—
Do
you years ago,
When
I had just come to this house as a twelve-
years-old bride ;
Why
hasn’t it flowered in the morning ?
It
will somebody, when the rain will come ;
And
when it does, place the first flower at my grave,
Where
my head rests ;
When
the rain comes, the fields will be full of
harvest ;
You
will all sing, play on the flute ;
And
then you must fix the marriage of Chotku ;
The
bride must herself clean the courtyard, as I’ve
always done ;
She
must draw alpona at her the door,
With
the designs of doves and corn-sheaves ;
My
Koran Shariff and the betel-nut pot, mine own,
Are
left for the bride ;
And
, yes, before I forget,
There
is a small tin-case under this bed, beneath my
pillow ;
This,
too, is for her ;
Shall
I tell what’s in it ?
Nothing
much, but my everything—
Petals,
raindrops, sheaves of paddy, a song,
Lots
and lots of wishes, caged in , shy lonely wishes ;
These
are not for you, forsaken by luck,
And
plenty of rains ;
And
in whose hands these shy desires will take wings,
Turn
into butterflies,
And
wander all over the house, and multiply
And
then, please, have a milad held for me.
Mother,
mother, as you die, should I tell you
It
will not rain in this land,
For
many years it won’t ;
Why
should you not die knowing that
It
may next year or the next ?
Zia
Haider (1936-). Poet. Poetry: Ektarate Kanna (1963), Dur Theke Dekha
(1977), Amar Palatak Chhaya. Essay: Theatrer Katha (vol-1.2.3.4), Bishwanatya.