How did I become her friend, when I have never had even a
nodding acquaintance with anyone belonging to the diplomatic community? Neither before nor after her. (This unconscious striving to keep a
respectful distance must be mutual!) And
yet I went to her so often, sought her company so frequently while she was here
that I was sometimes the first reader or listener of these poems.
I read them or listened to them in silence and
wonderment. There is something
inexplicable about them. Something that
defies all notions of keeping one=s
distance, remaining aloof, or minding one=s
own business.
I have marveled at them because these poems could have been
writtten by a Pakistani. A sane
Pakistani who loved this land and grieved for it. They could be written by me.
Did I write them, too?
I can see lines from my own poems echoing in hers. Of course, Patricia never read them. They are all in Urdu, which she could not
read. Nor did I even read them out to
her. Translating them into English would
have been a bother.
But when I read in ACover
Up@
You who dare
to hide my handiwork
in windowless rooms,
in coffin-like cells,
and call yourselves
protectors--O
you brain dead
jailors of body and soul,
who
gave
you
this brief
to suffocate daughters and wives
for the crime of being
female......
I marvel at her passionate involvement and think of my own
poem AChadar
aur Chardivari@ (AChadar and Four Walls@)
Sire, what shall I do with this black chadar.
Why do you bestow it upon me,
your Grace?
Or, in AStatic,@ when she writes
and the soul
hunkers down,
praying for better times.
Today, from these honking, wired minarets
no love flows.
My compassion reaches out
to God.
I recall my own poem AKhakam
Badahan@ (AApostacy Be Cursed@)
The Mullahs are at each others throats,
frightened people
cowering
in a corner.
Yes, these poems were written by me, too. In a different room. In a different language. Because Pat Sharpe is above all, a woman. Her poetry effectively cuts through the barriers of nationality, caste and religion to reveal the bare bones of womanhood.
twirling
whirling
one step
two step
non stop
pirouette
rhymes with
alouette--listen
to the lark
on a lark
on a merry-go-round
listen to the lark
with a sore
throat
in a
bro-
ken
neck....
Fahmida Riaz
Karachi
August 13, 1999