My efforts bore no fruit,
I could not stop her.
Her eyes always followed me
and her hands and nails were
bent on injuring me —
but I always eluded her.
Whenever she stalked me
in the streets, bazaars and showgrounds,
I evaded her.
From time to time her onslaughts
left my clothes covered in dust
and my feet lacerated —
but she could never win.
She took many forms,
ever-changing faces
silhouetted against my skylight,
windows, doors and walls.
At times
I even found her in bed
between my husband and myself.
She would leave her tears on my pillow
or speak in my voice —
but I would recognise her
soon enough.
She was always on the lookout for me:
in the morning paper,
in the fall of the rupee,
my flour bin,
my kitchen,
my wardrobe,
and wherever she could ambush me.
From time to time
she would fasten her teeth on my lips.
While making love
her soft rustling
would creep into the ecstasy
that was only mine.
I never knew
how or when
she entered my room.
At first
those who saw her kept her from me.
When she crept up my stairs
they must have been afraid,
sealing their lips,
not uttering a sound.
Perhaps they thought
I would wake up from a deep sleep;
perhaps they thought
I was dreaming about decorating my room.
So what?
She would leave disappointed
as always.
But the day she came
even the bird on its perch in my balcony
did not chirp;
nor did the plants I watered every day
say anything to me.
I spent that day just as I spend them all.
Dusk falls on the trees
beneath which I sit
on a bench in the Jogging Park
reflecting:
A day that began like any other day
is ending like any other day.
How, then, did sadness get the chance
to triumph?
Translated from Urdu by Durdana Soomro, Tehmina Ahmed, Imtiaz Piracha, Anas Mehmood and Faiza Rahman, with the author Azra Abbas, during the translation workshop in Karachi organized by the British Centre for Literary Translation in partnership with Oxford University Press and British Council Pakistan.