Nanu's Poetry

Dedication: In memory of our matriarchs, their lovers, and their poetry

Written Friday, 9 May 2014 // 9 Rajab 1435

Seven summers had passed when I returned to Bangladesh with my family as a new bride of one winter and spring.

The Nanu we encountered during that Dhaka visit was entirely different from the one I had known previously. Over long phone conversations, during the years I was away studying in Egypt, I learned a terrible trauma had silenced her for months -- but this Nanu, the matriarch of my maternal line, had much to say.  

This Nanu -- who had awakened from her long comatose silence -- awakened a poet.

Hundreds of verses she memorized as a child poured out. At times, she composed her own free verse. Other times, she gave the verses of her childhood schoolbooks her own personal touch. When she was in a good mood, she had couplets, longer poems, and rhymed stories ready in response to everyone and every thing. Although on the surface her selected poetic choices appeared deceptively flippant, I like to believe they were precise. She could be playfully mischievous; and at any moment -- when Nanu was filled with sadness by a memory or thought -- she would simply recite,

Things one sees on long spring walks

ভেঙ্গে গেল আমার স্বপ্নের ফুল 

ছিড়ে গেল আমার বিনার তার 

মর্ম উঠিয়া আমার হাহাকার

The flower of my dream is broken

My instrument's string is torn

Such is the depth of my sorrow

So when I returned six months newly-wed to Nanu the poet, she shared with me for the first time of the great love between her and Nur Miah--the grandfather I never met--who had passed almost twenty-five years before in Dharmapur on the bed he had made for them.

She dreamt of him often, and her dreams would leave her in a particular mood for the entire day.

One morning, in a bout of anger, she stubbornly refused to eat breakfast.  When my aunt gently coaxed her to eat, she said Nur Miah would not share his bowl of rice with her AGAIN and had THE NERVE to wink and smile the entire time. I realized she had awakened from a vision of him--and we all began to imagine that we knew him.

Drawn into her world, we missed him more than ever before. We imagined this man whom she first saw approaching her parent's home in Baraipur on a white horse must have been incredibly charming.

"What did you think when you first saw him, Nanu?" I'd ask her.

She'd smile, "I liked the horse very much."

"Was he handsome?" I'd ask her. 

"Oh, I was stunning."

Once, when I was lying down beside her, she recounted a conversation she had with him.  They considered where they would like to be buried after they had passed on.  When she cried that she didn't want to be alone, he told her he would find her even in the grave.  Then she said Nur Miah would recite:

তুমি যদি হইতা চাঁদ
আমি হইতাম সুর্য
প্রথম প্রভাতে উঠিয়ে
নয়ন খুলিয়ে
আমরা একী সাথে থাক্থাম  *

If you were the moon
I would be the sunlight
At the first break of dawn
As open eyes perceive
We would be as one. 

That summer, Nanu determined that my signature poem--the poem she loved most for me to recite to her again and again (and again)--would be the one she recited to Nur Miah when he would return home after a long trip. Each time, the conversation would go like this,

"Do you know what I'd tell him when he would come home?"

After the night she passed

"No, Nanu. What would you say?"

"I would say --

সামনে আসার যতক্ষণ

ভালবাসা ততক্ষণ 

সামনে আইলে পুড়ে মন

দুরে গেলে ঠনঠন

When you are before me 

Love lasts the duration

When you are before me

The heart burns

But go far away

Nothing.

She would shake her right fist in front of my face on the rhythm of ṭhanṭhan - the sound of nothing. Then she would conclude happily, with a sly, mischievous smile,

"Oh, he would become so furious! He would say, 'Thanṭhan? Thanṭhan?!? I crossed rivers for you, roads for you, walked through the rain and mud to return to you...and you say thanthan?!"

She then commanded me to recite this very poem to my new partner.  

So I committed the lines to memory, archived as "love's arsenal" and prayed it would make her happy to drive a lover of my own as crazy.

Al-Fatihah. 


 

In Praise of the Heavenly Night Traveller

Dedication: To the one who flew from one sanctuary to another as the full moon traverses the night sky[1]

On 4 May 2016 / 25 Rajab 1437, after an evening conversation over music and recitation, food, animals, and the night ascension, a friend was inspired to recite and share the following verses.  I have attempted to translate them and have included my rough translation below.  

Full moon over Jerusalem (Image from Islamicity.org)

صلوا على من قد سرى نحو السما
ليلا وعاد وما برحنا نوما
بالروح والجسم المطهر قد سما
قله وعلِّم من أبى تعليما 

صلوا عليه وسلموا تسليما

صلوا على من قد رأى الرحمنَ
بالقلب بل بالعين منه عيانا
من قاب أو أدنى قريبا كان
فخذ الفوائد واحذر التجسيما 

 صلوا عليه وسلموا تسليما

Pray upon the one who traversed the heavens in a night

Returning before we barely stirred from slumber

In spirit and purified body, he took flight

Humbling and teaching the one who rejected (him)

Invoke blessings and peace upon him.

Pray upon the one who beheld The Most Merciful

By heart and, indeed, the eye was witness

To One who was but a short distance--or intimately closer[2]

Take what you may of lessons and beware of anthropomorphism[3] 

Invoke blessings and peace upon him.

---

The Miraj by Sultan Muhammad (16th century)

[1] See the first verse of the chapter on the Night Journey and Ascension in The Mantle Ode by Al-Būṣīrī. 

[2] The poet echoes the ninth verse from the Chapter of the Star in the Qur’an (Sūrat al-Najm 53:9) in which God is described as being “at a distance of two bow lengths or nearer.”

[3] I couldn't think of a more poetic replacement for the technical term "anthropomorphism." Here, the poet is warning against the doctrinal and philosophical position of reading the Qur’anic text that refers to change in space and time in a way that anthropomorphizes God and conceptualizes the divine bound by space and time.

Aleppo is burning.

Aleppo is burning.

And the cool glasses of water waiting on the nightstand
And childrens' kisses covering my face and hands
And sunflower seed husks scattered on rooftops as homage to a warm sleepless night of laughter and conversation
And bunches of raw green pistachios still hidden in rose colored petals
And wet lips and chins ungracefully betraying recently devoured succulent green figs
And bright green domes of saints punctuating the ancient cityscape
And unmatched love for the unrefined stranger
And all the ghosts haunting my memory



Cannot cleanse the vision of blood
And defuse the bombs
and quench the fires

Burning Aleppo.

Of Jewish Cat Therapists, Modern West Indian Muslims, and Ex-Bangladeshi Son-in-laws

Dedication: To Memory Lane 

[Note: I've opted to elide the "American" part of the hyphenated X-Y-American identities of the unnamed individuals below and have simply kept X - and sometimes Y - under the naive assumption that the American-ness of all involved is not questioned. Furthermore, all of the following events take place in the United States.]

I don’t usually do interfaith-y events.

It’s not that I don’t think they are important.  I’ve witnessed some moving and amazing work done by interfaith organizations concerned with social justice, bridge building, and community building, but as in many things informing our political unconscious — our strange, specific prejudices have a genealogy.

-----

When I was in middle and high school, I found interfaith events interesting — and always slightly irritating. There were a number of reasons for this, but the one that I remember most clearly is the way the Muslim participants were positioned to be on the defensive, stereotype corrective mode (and this was post-first Gulf War, pre-9-11, sans support of wealthy foundations).

The other reason is that I ended up being the token “youth” for the faith communities present, because most participants were either established enough in their careers to make time to expand their horizons -- or retired.

And the other reasons involve embarrassing stories of people who may still be alive.

There was one interfaith house party, however, organized by local Muslim and Jewish women that I attended as a high schooler which was quite memorable. 

An Indian auntie from a local Islamic center invited me, so I took my short Bangladeshi Muslim middle school friend with me. I didn’t want to be the only “youth” present, and her parents thought I was an excellent role model.  We left from a family lunch both wearing brightly colored shalwar kamis, and from what I remember, we looked fabulous. 

At the event, the ladies — mostly in their 40s and 50s — went around the room introducing themselves.  The beautiful woman seated to my right began and identified herself as a Jewish cat therapist.  She specialized in relationship issues and reconciliation between cats and their owners.  She had henna tattoos and wore gold bangles and explained them as traditions she adopted from her Indian husband because she “loves culture.’

I quickly looked around the room to read the faces present.  There were a lot of accepting head nods.  Not one person flinched. 

My little Bangladeshi Muslim friend and I tried our best to be very mature, intellectually engaged, and open-minded teenagers … so we suppressed our laughter until tears came out of our eyes.

Another woman introduced herself as a West Indian Muslim — and therefore, as she described, thoroughly Western. And therefore, thoroughly modern.  And therefore, much more progressive and much more capable of getting along with American culture than — WAIT FOR IT — the girls in shalwar kamis, as you can see, sitting across from her (she gestured toward us as exhibit A and B).  With confidence, she opined, “These young Pakistani ladies might get married soon, but that’s because they come from a more conservative traditional culture. That's not Islam. There’s a difference between culture and Islam.”

My little Bangladeshi Muslim friend and I looked at each other and whispered — That Guyanese auntie is whack. 

Later, during the reception, the Pakistani host asked us where we were from, noting what sweet things we were for attending their interfaith jam session.  I pointed to my little Bangladeshi Muslim friend and said “She’s from Hollywood; I’m from Davie.” 

“No no, beta, I mean," she asked warmly, "where does your family come from?”  

“Oh!  We are Bangladeshi, auntie.”

Her smile dropped faster than you could say bhalobasha.  “My daughter married a Bangladeshi man." She paused. "He wasn’t very nice, so they are now divorced.” 

My little Bangladeshi Muslim friend and I looked at each other as we finished the last cookie in our hands.  “Thank you so much for having us over, auntie.  I think we should head out soon.  Our parents will be worried if we don’t come home before dark.”

We said goodbye to the nice Jewish cat therapist who gave us her card before we got in the car and I drove home — but not before I took a long detour and drove along the beach to let off steam and process everything that just happened at the all Muslim and Jewish ladies' interfaith house party. 

—

Interfaith-y Events Post-Script:

Earlier this year during Black History Month, I ran a storytelling workshop with my team for a wonderful group of college student-activists.  They came from different universities to discuss interfaith work and social justice and learn from each other. They were thoughtful, intelligent, creative, and kind young leaders who managed to make me hopeful in spite of our political climate. They were serious about imagining a better world; they were serious about making the world a better place; they were serious about what they believed in; they were serious about respect; they were serious about not taking themselves too seriously — and they are far from retirement. 

New York City Jams: Jackson Heights Baul and Jhaalmuri

MTA Trip to Jackson Heights: $2.75
Mildly spicy Jhaalmuri: $2
Vendor dropping baul sangeet: Priceless

#JacksonHeightsHustle #NYC #NewYorkCity #Bangla #Bangladeshi #Sufi #Muslim #soulfood

New York City Jams: Cathedral Parkway

Address: Cathedral Parkway Station
From: 7 August 2013
To: Me waiting for the 1-train

The Stranger, not by Camus

Dedication: To remembering before I forget 

Another photo of the sky on my phone @saharishtiaque

I’m sure the stranger who followed me on Thursday evening wanted me to write about him — because everything about the encounter made me feel uneasy. 

His disposition was unsettling enough to feel discomfort but not flirtatious enough to feel sexually harassed.

His concerns were poignant enough to feel sympathy, but his method of serial-questioning was threatening enough to be cautious.

I hadn’t left a symposium on oral history in the Black Lives Matter movement and walked down Broadway for more than three minutes when I heard him running behind me. 

I stopped and turned to see him catching his breath and then ask, “How long have you lived here?”

I looked at his face and recognized him from the symposium.  He was the one person who said “As-salamu ‘alaykum” to me as I looked for a seat.  Listening to his voice, I guessed he might be West African. 

"Excuse me?”

I began walking again, and he continued to follow along and again asked, “How long have you lived here?”

“You mean, here — in New York City?”

“Yes.”

“Six years.”

Hearing me speak, he concluded, “You grew up in America?” He then proceeded to ask a series of questions. “Where did you grow up? Where is your family? Where do you go to pray? Do you like it here?”

We continued to walk.  I looked ahead thinking about what fruits I wanted to buy from Morton Williams.  I decided, at that moment, I would not answer any questions from a stranger; instead, I would ask him my own. 

“What’s your name?”

His name was AbdulK--.

"How long have you lived here?”

He said two years.

“Where are you from?”

He was from Nigeria.

“How do you like New York City?”

His body language and facial expressions were restless.  As we kept walking, he didn’t take much time to consider and respond that he believed New York City is far better than Wisconsin; he said, however, that he finds his faith took a blow here; he said he works all the time, and he misses his family; he said that he’s constantly struggling and fighting, and that he wants to leave the U.S. and return home where he can be a good Muslim.

Then he said, “I’m black AND I’m Muslim. I’m attacked on both accounts here. I can’t take it anymore.”

Listening to him, I took a deep breath and said, “You know, Ramadan is really nice in the city.”  As we approached the 116th/Columbia University Station, he asked, “Where are you going?”

“To a musalla — to pray.”

“Ma sha Allah,” I heard him say under his breath.  For the first time, his demeanor softened and he smiled before he turned toward the stairs and disappeared into the train station. 

I paused a moment wondering, "What. dafuq. just. happened???" — and then walked over to the supermarket to buy a bag of mandarins.