Beyond the Rhymes

Once, perhaps, there lived a home — a jointed heart of many souls. Now each one stands alone, in the comfort of self, in the name of gain. When we dined together, joy filled our bowls, yet envy brewed in the corners of our eyes. When harvests were rich, the weeds too flourished. Then came the split — East to west, a brother unknown to brother — strange fate, alas! The burden fell on the aging pair. Two sons, or maybe more, and daughters too — all waiting for the day their roots would turn to dust, to seize the land, to fight and claim, to curse and blame — their words like knives, their hearts unmade. The parents never knew — the lives they shaped with tender hope, would change their form and wear another face as years grew old. The one never called with love, nor held with care — why do tears fall now in despair? When a new bride steps within, some homes bloom bright with laughter — and yet, some drift away from their orbit, losing all control, their dwelling lost forever in the dark ...

At home, I’ve raised a few doves. Each day I scatter grains for them, and stand watching — how quickly peace turns into a quiet war. Some devour greedily, grain after grain; others only watch, unable to lift even one. From their hollow eyes I learn what hunger truly looks like. Though this house is theirs too, competition is fierce — so they slip away, crossing into the neighbor’s yard, drawn by hunger’s call. And I, who give them my heart, can’t help but wonder — will they remember me if they win and I lose?

Someday, if I ever break free from the restless whirl of this household — even for a fleeting moment — I’ll remember the cries of childhood, the mischief of youth, the laughter of those college days, the teasing of my friends… I wonder where they are now, what they do. Most of them must be married by now. At this age, no one seems left unmarried. A few who once called, who remembered me even after college — they too disappeared while pulling the cart of family life. Even I… lost myself somewhere. Now, in my contact list, there are only colleagues — those I work with, and relatives, my children’s tutors, and a few chosen friends’ numbers. Sometimes, we chat in leisure hours. Though my wife forbids drinking, friends still say, “Come over, just once…” I wish I could. But to one I gave my word — so I sit with them, yet can’t raise the glass. Everyone’s busy building their own world. So many faces crowd the streets — my friends are among them, yet I can’t pick one out to call by name. Their...

I once held the moon In the hollow of my palm — My life bloomed, Eightfold in joy. Time after time I swallowed it all — Even the things I never wished to taste, In wisdom, never… Yet in illusion, I did. We stayed apart, perhaps, But never truly let go — For when light falls upon the past, Only a lover or a wife Knows how bare a man can be. Every love ends When thirst is quenched — Yet none escape The maze of affection And mystery entwined. The one I showed my address, Each hidden corner, The one who knew The secret curve of my waist, Who heard The murmurs of my sickness, Who knew — My madness speaks its own tongue... To her, I am an open book. And when love ends, As lovers burn their letters In quiet flames — Even after the ashes fade, My love remains, Its dust still drifts, Softly, Through the wind...

Sometimes in this house, Sometimes in another— A life bound by duties and care. Those who once brought me here, Promising food and shelter, Have raised their hands now— Surrendered, Leaving me to bear The half of a man’s burden That a woman carries still. All day I stay in someone’s home, Sometimes I just come and go— A few understand my plight And pay me what I deserve; But others set their cruel terms, As though I were a purchased good Meant for use, for pleasure. So much pain, So much fire within— Whom shall I tell? Who will judge? Those who are “great,” Whom I call Dada! Dada! every day, They will decide, of course— For hypocrisy spreads Like a contagious disease. My husband spits, “You sell your body— That’s why you suffer so!” How can I make him see? If he worked today, Perhaps such misery Would never have been ours. Some call me by name, Some call me Boudi, Some Masima with love. My heart swells with affection— I forget I’m a servant. A few have embraced me truly, As though I we...

On the day of departure, even if the bride’s eyes refuse to shed tears, tears must be summoned— for otherwise, before society’s gaze, it seems incomplete. The groom too, matching her tune, sheds a few silent drops… The very daughter who once clung to her parents in tearful embrace, in that theatrical farewell, will she ever again see those very faces the same way? For once she steps into another’s house, bearing a new surname, her family has shifted— her identity rests at her husband’s door. It is the son who is deemed true identity, for whom countless vows and rituals are offered before the gods. Yet, is it he who holds his parents to his chest? Feeds them with care each day, when his wife steps into the courtyard? To call another woman “mother” feels like shame. And when the father calls out loudly in public, the son hushes him— “How many times have I told you, don’t embarrass me before others, just because you’re my father.” Still, in this unbroken cycle of custom, faith runs deep. ...