That there is room for other conversations too
is a thought, a double-edged sword
for me,
and for you.
My friend on the next bar stool
is mesmerized with your heaving breasts,
your slender frame sitting straight,
laughing, sipping wine, while the world waits
to genuflect before the moment
when the woman in you will glow.
“Yes! Yes! I know what the world has come to!
Hunger, intolerance, head-butts, Zizou!”
Please! Please take note of what I’ve become too
but I don’t know how you do that
I forget my misery; laugh at your jokes.
You caress my cheek, playfully pat.
“No seriously! I mean there are more bombs than childbirths.
Ask a man gone casual walking in Baghdad, Madrid.”
Somewhere the ghazal singer croons Faiz…
“Aur bhi gham hai zamane mein mohabat ke siwa…”
Ah no! I remember “dukh” in the original work.
“Dukh” is stark, naked, intensely painful than
“Gham”; a ghazal singer's mellifluous, melancholic version.
“Ha! Here speaks the poet
whose only tool to a woman’s heart
is semantics!”
Everyone titters, I feel naked.
You giggle, wink, blow a kiss.
“Don’t you think it was chilling to watch Saddam today?
As if he’s walked into a bar asking for a table!”
I feel a shiver up my spine.
Raise my glass, toast the wine.
“Long live America!”
We all laugh.
“I love your sense of humor.”
But I wait for the inevitable.
I wait for the moment
when your own thoughts
conspire, chain your heart.
I wait for the moment
when my poetry's logic
play tricks, seal your lips.
How long,
how long can you duck, efface
before my joy trips on your face?
That there is room for other conversations too
is a thought, a double-edged sword
for me,
and for you.
Ah! She sings my favourite Momin ghazal now…
“Ulte wo-h shikwe karte hain aur kis ada ke saath,
betaaqati ke taanein hain uzr-e-jafa ke saath.
Maanga karenge abse dua hijr-e-yaar ki
Aakhir to dushmani hai asar ko dua ke saath.”
© Dan Husain
December 31, 2006
