To My Mother
By Dr Akbar Ahmed
When I walk at night alone
in the deep wadis of her sobs
or when I know that each time I drive fast
or laze the reply to her letters;
when I know that at midnight
she sits up praying to her God
to keep me warm and whole,
when I know that she will still bless me
though I give her eyes cause to tears,
when I know that all my warts and ways
will turn to gold at her simple touch,
then I see through her the God she sits rotating her
beads to and then I know that her God
will always be there for me to reach out and touch.
---
Twilight Days and Delhi Nights
leave us here in our women’s chambers
leave us here so secure
chewing the lotus
with lotus maiden
amidst the fumes of a suspended past
that waft away
an uncertain future
space so marble-cooled
illusions so fixed behind crenellated
tiled and cypress walls
the blood and passion of war
the heat and dust
of the summer plains
is far
far is panipat
farther the streams of samarkand
sweet the tintinnabulation
of the tiny golden bells
on female feet
sweet the swirl of the skirt
leave us in the zenana
to frolic as imperial transvestites
to shrieks of cool laughter
and the soft pleasures
of the indian clime
don’t start
oh son of taimur
that strange sound is just
the british bugle playing its tune
take another pull
with golden goblets and jeweled swords
let us play out the history of our race
let us once again war
and love
here
behind the laced curtains of the woman’s chambers
(The writer is the Ibn Khaldun Chair of Islamic Studies, School of International Service, American University, Washington, DC, and a former ambassador of Pakistan)
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