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This Is Not a Curse
On the day my daughter turns three old enough to understand fragments of the intricate theory of love, I will unfold my prayer rug and proudly confess to her: this is where you beg beg as if there's no tomorrow beg without the hesitation of hoboes in front of the porticos of affluent businessmen beg like a gale that would sabotage the plans of his perpetrators beg with a belief that you will be awarded what you're striving for tell as if you would perish without telling and then continue telling your Most Benevolent friend how your day went, how someone fibbed to you what makes you burn in delight, what are your darkest fears cry as if you have something to cry for this is how I will help her practise for I know the intense years that will unfurl she will have something or someone to cry for this is not a curse, I swear this is prayer in its purest form for I know this world will break her too the way it broke me, the way it broke my ancestors, so I have to help her long before she begins believing she's irreparable like pearls that know they can never go back to their celestial shells but with God by your side even the moon can be halved I will help her the same way my lovely mother did.
Limbs
A man without limbs grapples with negativity to function properly. She is not just my mother. The voracious nooks and crannies of this house have been nudging me: who will tend to us, now? whose smile will warm us up? In response to their plea, I holler: who will lull my insecurities to sleep? who will wipe my profuse tears? An obsession with a mother is different than that with a lover – you wouldn’t have arrived here without a mother, you have dwelled near her heart before entering this realm of murkiness and exhaustion. Without her every magical thing that encompasses me becomes meaningless, without her the synonym of everything is nothing. She is akin to my limbs. In her absence, I resemble a man without limbs; In her absence, I resemble a boat adrift on the sea.
Abba
Abba says: You're the light of my universe So when the ache in the crevices of my lungs is filled to the brim He says: Why is my daughter sad? How can my light be sad? My beloved Abba The days when your daughter forgets to don a smile Are the days when her excruciating past decides to strike her charred brain And remind her of everything that gave birth to her insecurities Everything she has been trying to dispose But memories are not disposable teacups In which she pours her tea frequently For she has this peculiar urge to dispose of everything that she has loved And life is but a turbulent highway Ergo, on those days, your light switches off As if she never existed in the first place But that lasts only for a few soul-shattering hours For after that, she fills herself with the ambrosian fuel of optimism and forgiveness And bounces back with increased vigour. ___ Abba: Father in Urdu language
The Struggle of the Patient
Life is an unpaved road intimidating and enormous like an elephant and I am wandering in it with invisible crutches under my jaded branches One crutch is scintillating, a shaft of inexhaustible hope - إِنَّ اللّهَ مَعَ الصَّابِرِينَ (Indeed, God is with those who are patient.) And what am I if not a blob of congealed blood refusing to whine about my trials? The other crutch is profound, a rod too arduous to clench - فَبِأَيِّ آلَاءِ رَبِّكُمَا تُكَذِّبَانِ (So which of the favours of your Lord will you deny?) And what am I if not a boulder instead of a heart refusing to count my myriad blessings? I have learned while perusing the books of knowledge by righteous luminaries Being patient cannot be likened to being grateful This conscientious soul desperately awaits a morning When this timid beauty can hold both the crutches with a wide smile as a jewel on her visage and sweetly whisper, " الحمد لله على كل حال " (All praise and thanks are only for God in all circumstances.)
Laughter
I wish to share with you,
every minute detail regarding how you kindle my dark soul on fire
or
the fragrance of gratitude that wafts in my lungs
once inundated with grief
after meeting you
But how do I tell you about your laughter?:
that which distracts me the most.
It is more satiating than water for a traveler in a desert.
I know
it is your exterior that could've easily been a subject of this poem because you're insanely charming
but
nothing compares to the rawness of your laughter
and the delight it bestows upon me.
When you laugh
I forget about the gnawing agonies of this brutal world
But once your laughter fades,
I'm reminded of everything that is broken in this world,
everything broken about my heart.
Beloved, never stop laughing.
Afra Adil Ahmad is a writer, poet, artist, and calligrapher based in Taiwan. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature. She writes about everything under the sun: from dark issues of society to problems faced by teenagers, imparting chunks of wisdom through her poems, stories, and write-ups. Her works have appeared in various magazines, including Iman Collective, MYM, Rather Quiet, Ice Floe Press, and Olney Magazine.
