The Goat Herder
Which ragas do the creatures of the city sing, I couldn’t tell you. I read the poem of my life sitting beneath skies of blue in the shade of date palms and mulberry trees. I do not hear the false laughter echoing from the dwellings. Disengaged from the spectacle of life, day and night, in a pure reverie, I remain at one with my smile.
My eyes do not see the glittering electric lights in the bazaars. My sights are set in the solitary wilds of the forest, seeking the light of destiny. I begin every morning like a story that beckons to one’s heart, and remain in this state, unaware, until the light of the next day hides me in its embrace.
The denizens of the world shudder to greet the morning of their lives. From fitful sleep they awake, absorbing the troubles of the day into their very breath like the poison of a mighty snake.
Come nightfall, how is it I smile in my slumber, while the leaders of the world sigh through their suffering sleep exhausted from the nightmares of their day. Which ragas are these the creatures of the city sing, I couldn’t tell you.
Simplicity
I must admit, I make no difference between the pure waters of a spring and the aged wine of the grape. What is the difference? Do tell. If you look closely, can you find any difference between the hues on the scales of those tiny fish in the lake and the light of the small, sweet stars twinkling on the horizon?
Have you felt the difference between the hot flickering of a fire and the soft drops of evening in the form of dew?
When the strings of your instrument are broken, then how can you play the true raga of life?
Icy Hand
Friend, what is it you are seeking with your hands outstretched? A thing once lost will not be found. A thing that is gone will not come back.
You tell me, have gusts of wind ever turned around? Do autumn leaves ever return once they have withered away? What, then, is it you are seeking with your hands outstretched? There is not a thing here that you are searching for.
My dearest friend, his icy hands have turned the burning coals of sweet, warm love, ice cold. He has felled incredible soldiers, the bravest of hearts and strong, weathered bodies in the manner a tornado uproots weak plants. Why do you continue to search? The place you seek will not here be found.
Have you not observed how the luminous smile of a child, so trusting, can be transformed into permanent stillness, or drowned in the everlasting silence of illness? Faces reddened by life, overcast by a withering chill.
Why, then, do you continue this fruitless restlessness? The place you seek does not exist here.
Have you not wondered how, when evening arrives, the mighty sun sets? At their appointed time, even the stars are dulled and disappear. Do the ocean waves not fade out of existence once they reach the shore?
Here, nothing is established, stable or immortal. Why, then, do you fret and fiddle? The place you seek does not exist here. You will not stay safe here. It does not matter whether you hide beneath the largest rock or bolt the
door of your house or grab onto your lover and refuse to let go. Have you not noticed how bright and clear his eyes glow? He has kissed the foreheads of the grand residents of mansions. His bare hands can break down the strongest doors. His sharp eyes can find those hiding in the darkness. His swift steps can scale the tops of treacherous mountains and castles in the sky. What is it you are seeking with your hands outstretched? The place you seek does not exist here.
Dearest, have you noticed the despairing quality of the trees in autumn? Their leaves desiccate. No vitality remains. None. Springs dry up and are bereft of their musical waters.
Everything vanishes at an appointed time. Many-hued panoplies of clouds, too, dissipate in the winds. The song of the bulbul once mingled with the winds, dies down to a silence. The strings of the lute, too, are defeated. Nothing lives forever.
Yes. Nothing. What, then, is it you are seeking with your hands outstretched? The place you seek does not exist here.
Look at the evolution of the land. Over the course of centuries, the oceans, too, are forced to leave their positions. The most majestic of gardens can turn to desolate ruins on the turn of a pin. The pages of time keep turning. They cannot be stopped.
By the same token, I fear you disappearing. And it is also possible that I go far away and, upon returning, do not find my friend anywhere.
Or what if I stayed home and my friend went on a journey, and upon returning found me gone?
What, then, are you searching for? The place you seek does not exist here.
O creatures of Adam, do you see how, every day, the Angel of Death comes towards our wellspring of vitality with his arms wide open. One day his icy hands will extinguish this fire, too.
With much gratitude for Aamer Hussein’s spirit of generosity, always connecting writers with others. Thank you.
Hijab Imtiaz Ali (1908-1999) was the first Muslim woman pilot in the Indian subcontinent. That however, is not her best-known accomplishment, for Hijab was a child genius, writing her first bestselling novel Meri Natamam Mohabbat at the age of twelve. It is considered one of the best love stories ever written in Urdu literature. She continued to be a prolific writer throughout her life, and has been called ‘The Queen of Urdu Romanticism‘. In Adab-E-Zareen she adheres to no traditional conception of form or genre, reflecting with authenticity the freedom with which she lived her life.
Sascha Aurora Akhtar has been a figure on the UK/USA ‘avant-garde,’ poetry scene for over a decade. She is the author of two poetry collections The Grimoire of Grimalkin (Salt) and 199 Japanese Names for Japanese Trees (Shearsman). Her work has been widely anthologised and translated into Armenian, Portuguese, Galician, Russian, Dutch and Polish. Anthologies include Cathecism: Poems for Pussy Riot (2012) and Out of Everywhere (Reality Street, 2015). She has also been part of poetry protests – Against Rape (Peony Moon, 2014), Solidarity Park Poetry – Poems for the Turkish Resistance (Ed. 2013). Her story ‘The Nature of Wounds‘ appeared in STORGY in 2017. Women: Poetry: Migration, an anthology (Theenk Books: Edited by Jane Joritz-Nakagawa) is upcoming in 2018 with poems from A Year In Clouds.