Letters to the World

Dearest,

meet me at five o’ clock,
i’ll uncross my legs &
kiss the coffee cup.

indulge me,
not with small talk.

enthrall me,
not with your travels.

amuse me,
not with your ego.

listen, really listen.
speak, really speak.
smile.

meet me at five o’clock,
i’ll pause murakami &
lick the froth.

Dear Sir,

Who will want a body left out with the recycling bags?

Is a septic mouth wagging with a chopped tongue desirable?

Does anyone prefer hair doused in kerosene and set on fire?

Will they hold hands that are sectioned into refugee camps? 

Which one of them desire cracked lips loaded with unlit cannons? 

Now, which one of them will caress a neck strangled in civil war?

Will they come near a pair of rotting breasts?

Who will touch a belly button infected with dissent and pus?

Are open thighs parched from an unrelenting drought attractive?

Sincerely,

Female

Dearest,

Sincerest apologies for my lack of letters, I have no rhyme or reason for not picking up my pen and writing to you. Will you believe me when I say that lately I have been thinking about you? I sincerely hope so.

I am writing because I have become strangely obsessed with a movie and it refuses to leave my thoughts. A few days ago, the usual late night browsing into the insidious corners of the great world wide web led me to a rather peculiar vampire film, Only Lovers Left Alive.

I will not bore you with the minutiae of the story sequence, gush over the cast and the director, request you to have a listen to the hauntingly beautiful music or even watch it. All I will share is that it is basically a love story. You might roll your eyes at me and say: “you and your obsession with romantic films”. I know – I am guilty of the charge.

Hear me out.

There are many stages of love, right? But, the stage played out in the film is the one when passion and all its petulant siblings have eroded away. What is left behind is a content state of love, in which one lover can live in Detroit and his beloved in Tangier, without the rapture of jealousy, possession and debilitating dependence contaminating the waters.

Forgive me. I am not trying to come across as a pretentious cynic with all the answers. You know me better, but think for a moment.

When all the petty humane feelings and desires are stripped away, we are left with the purest of pearls. We become vessels for love, freely it flows and ebbs. It fears not containment.

I realise pure love is a fantastic dream and the messy journey to reach such a state of togetherness is of great importance to our common narrative and without it we will lose our identity as human beings.

But, what if I told you there is a pair cloaked in immortality that embodies such love?Before I give the secret away, I will draw your attention to something poignant the lover, Adam, in the film repeats to his beloved, Eve:

         When you separate an entwined particle and you move both parts away from the other, even at opposite ends of the universe, if you alter or affect one, the other will be identically altered or affected. 

This. This. This. I was utterly captivated by the sheer beauty of these words and I had to know more.

I know what you are thinking. What does science have to do with love?

Please bear with me as I try to explain the connection. I am an ignorant when it comes to physics, so I took to the trusty old Internet to learn, and it spoke to me for a long while and taught me a great deal.

I’ll tell you what I learnt. Physical phenomenon of entanglement, or Quantum Entanglement, occurs when a pair of particle physically interacts in such a way that their behaviour becomes dependent, irrespective of their distance from each other. The idea that separate particles could be ‘entangled’ so completely that measuring one particle would instantaneously influence the other, regardless of the distance separating them.

Fascinating stuff, I know.

Einstein disdainfully dismissed it as ‘spooky action at a distance’ and referred to it as a ‘etymology soaked orgy’ in a letter to Erwin Schrodinger.

But, one man’s trash is another person’s treasure or so to speak.

Entanglement can be used to explain many interesting occurrences in the universe, especially human interaction, don’t you think? I certainly do.

Adam and Eve. The original lover and his beloved. Adam and Eve were physically two parts of one, as narrated by monolithic belief systems. So, it makes sense for their souls and minds to be entangled, despite subsequent separation on earth.

Now, I want to complicate it slightly.

What about lovers who are not man and woman? Entanglement between two men? Let me tell you about two such lovers and the transcendent love shared between:

Jalaluddin Rumi and Shams Tabriz.

Their tumultuous and tragic bond dissolved the conventional demarcations of father and son, master and disciple, lover and beloved. Souls so completely entangled that the seams were erased.

In their first meeting that took place in a marketplace in Konya, Shams stopped Rumi on horseback, grabbed the mount and took him off-guard by challenging him with the question: Who is greater? Muhammad the Prophet or Bayazid Bastami?

‘The Prophet’, Rumi replied after the initial surprise.

Shams probed further: “Then why did Muhammad say to the Divine, ‘We have not praised You as You deserved to be praised’ and Bastami declared himself to be ‘the exalted’ and claim the station of the Divine Power himself?”

Such a question brought Rumi tumbling down from his mighty seat onto the ground, as he realised that he was finally in front of the beloved he had been searching. After much reflection, he answered: “Bestami took one swallow of knowledge and his thirst was quenched. For Muhammad the fountain of knowledge was continually replenished with light and love, so he was eternally thirsty”.

Shams cried out loud and the two embraced, heads prostrating. The seeker and the sought were united; one soul within two figures.

Their long communions heavy with silence and thought were shrouded in great mystery. Yet, the world failed to understand their bond. After two years of time spent together, Shams was killed. Rumi was unconsolable and lost without his beloved Sun. It took him a long time to realise that the physical vessel of Shams might be gone, but his love and friendship lived within Rumi. The love was subsequently poured into his poetry, eternal verses of love.

Such a source of spiritual purification and love is not meant to be intellectualised. Their relationship is not meant to be explicated. It is only meant to be felt. Their love flows through all of us – sceptics and lovers alike.

I have another poet and his beloved in my mind, who felt that self-realisation came by walking on the path of love.

Khalil Gibran and May Zaideh.

They were a uniquely fascinating pair of lovers. Why? Because they never met. Never. Their initial literary correspondence, which began in 1921, developed into mutual admiration and friendship, and ultimately culminated into the final admission of love before his death. Yet, without a single meeting.

Writing letters to each other was the whole sum of their physical interaction. In spite of the ‘seven thousand miles’ that separated them, Gibran lived in New York and May in Egypt, their relationship spanned over two decades.

Can entanglement phenomenon apply to them?

Quantum entanglement requires that two particles have had some physical interaction before separation, right? But what if we lift the veil and observe their love beyond the realm of our understanding of ‘physical interaction’. From their letters, we can see that they regularly met in the dream world and felt each others presence in their daily lives.

Khalil Gibran wrote that his love for May was a spiritual procession towards divinity. She was his path towards understanding the self. She was the incarnation of his spiritual and intellectual yearnings. Much like Rumi and Shams.

Gibran, in a letter dated 24^th January 1919, wrote to May about the dynamics of their relationship by referring to Robert Browning, who after reading his future wife’s 1844 volume of poems reached out to her by writing, “I love your verses with all of my heart, Miss Elizabeth”. Gibran, like Robert Browning, fostered deep admiration for the mind of his beloved without the corrupting base human emotions and desires.

Shams and Rumi. Gibran and May. Robert and Elizabeth Browning. Their bonds were misconstrued and misunderstood by the public gaze, yet their eternal love show the multiple facets of entanglement. They beg us to unchain our minds to think beyond the boundaries of age, gender, time and other restrictive labels.

Affected and altered through their love, they were souls exalted by their imagination and self.

Humbly yours,

S

Dearest,

I buckled my safety belt and straightened my seat in anticipation of the air stewardess walking down the aisle to check our cabin was ready for take-off. As you very well know, my teacher’s pet mentality bears an ugly head at such moments and I even slid my blanket away, just to receive that cursory nod which in my mind translates into, ‘you are a star passenger’. I was wedged between two women and after a polite smile of acknowledgment, looked straight ahead onto the mini screen flickering with duty-free advertisements. I plugged my ear buds in, whilst scrolling through the in-flight film options, and prepared myself to discreetly ignore the safety announcements before take-off.

A commanding female voice disrupted my quiet rebellion with the request to flight AA2419 passengers to give her undivided attention for the impending safety instructions. On her persistence, I reluctantly took off the earplugs and pretended to listen, all the while deciding on whether to watch a film or read my new book. She craftily began her monologue with humour, informing us that it was a new aircraft acquired by American Airlines and our extreme luck at flying in this particular metal bird. We collectively chuckled to humour the omnipresent figure.

She passed on the baton to her fellow flight staff, and they continued to guide us through the safety instructions with a mime and a video. I was listening with a detached interest, until the following words were mechanically announced:

“…in the unlikely event of an emergency landing and evacuation, leave your personal belongings behind”.

Personal belongings. Personal belongings. Personal belongings.

My brain slowed down as I chewed these two words in my mouth.

Belongings, personal to me.

I did a quick inventory of my ‘personal belongings’:

Phone adorned with museum entry stickers and filled with photos of loved ones,

Pair of brown leather loafers purchased with my first paycheque,

Black handbag a generous present from doting aunty uncle,

Grey coat folded and placed in the compartment above,

Passport and wallet shoved in the front seat pocket,

Lavender branches carefully wrapped in red paper,

Leather pouch containing my precious heirlooms,

Newly acquired copy of Adichie’s Americanah,

Thank you cards,

Etc.

I panicked.

What will I leave behind?

What do I need in case of an emergency? Does it depend on the emergency?

Maybe, I can sneak in my grandmother’s earrings?

Is my passport excluded from ‘personal belongings’ list? Surely, it comes under ‘necessary’ items? How will I identify myself? Will my fingerprints come in handy?

 I must take my phone with me! I will need to inform my mother where I am ‘in case of an emergency’. I can lend my phone to other estranged passengers, as well.

My sturdy shoes are flat and I am certain the heel will not pierce the parachute material of the float, right?

I have written notes on the first few chapters of my book. I will be devastated to be parted with my new literary friend.

I was entranced with the idea of personal belongings at that moment in time, as flight AA2419 took off and was smoothly airborne within minutes.

In unabashed honesty, I admitted to myself.

I was whole because of the sum of my various material possessions. My identity in this modern age was moulded with the items I possessed. I was comfortably flying alone, because of the safety blanket knitted together with the constant reminder of my loved ones.

I belonged to my personal belongings. I was owned by their presence in my life.

I was not a refugee. I was not being forced to leave my home. My country was not blazing with war and strife.

As that sickening realisation seeped into my brain, I compared my current flight to a refugee’s journey from the mouth of a burning home to the feet of unknown destination.

What will I take with me when I get the call to run? Air bloated with expectant war drones and firing missiles, which ‘personal belonging’ will I save?

The necessary or the sentimental?

Dear,

You must promise me something beforehand. Promise me that what I am about to say will not be taken as an offence. It is something that is not against you, but a pressing matter directed towards me.

I am writing to you straight after finishing the film, The Help. I cried through most of it. Initially, I was not aware of the reason for my emotions. Well, I did know partially – hatred etched on a woman’s face for another woman because of her skin colour. But that is not the reason I rushed to rest my demons by writing to you.

I know the reason for my tears. I know I was crying because I was horrified to have lived in such ignorance. I had been ignorant in acknowledging those people who had helped raise me. These very people who had cooked and cleaned for me, washed my clothes and looked after me when my parents were away. They are part of my story but I never even acknowledged their importance.

My acknowledgement, I tell you, will not affect them. Through this mere letter, I am not attempting to paint myself as a suppressor or a coloniser. I am none of these because if I am, then I am making the grave mistake of assuming I hold power.

In the blistering heat during the long summer afternoons, the entire household had the habit of taking a siesta. Nothing and no one apart from the air-conditioning had a job. When I think back, I remember her tentatively sitting on the edge of my bed. She would take one of my calves and massage me until I fell asleep. Then, she would go in a corner of my room and rest on the carpet until beckoned by either my grandmother or mother.

She was older than my mother, but neither of us considered the other an equal. Her natural position while addressing me was to sit on the floor beside the bed or study chair. I once questioned her seating arrangement and asked her to sit next to me. She declined by replying that she did not want to forget who she was. She was the help.

Did I mention? I visited home a few months ago. An hour after landing, it became difficult to even get a glass of water without asking the ‘maid’ to run to my assistance. I realised during my visit, I was ashamed of the daily life I had experienced before I had shifted to another country. I was ashamed for an elder to carry my dinner tray back and forth. It was not because the tray was heavy, but because I had attached false sense of grandeur without rightfully earning respect.

Another harsh reminder hit me during my visit – the separation of utensils and cutlery. When I reached for a glass in the cupboard, I was informed that it was the maid’s glass. In the film, The Help, the separation is prevalent because of the skin colour, but why the separation in this situation? Is it because of her job? What if I get a job as a cleaner, will my grandmother hand me a separate glass as well?

My family members laughed at my helping the help. They called it ‘westernised’ attitude. I call it manners and etiquette. When I learned how to clean a bathroom in university, I think back to the daily routine of another woman who was paid to clean my bathroom but never thanked by me because it was her ‘job’.

There was this small bit in the movie that really struck me. There is a glittery charity ball organised in an opulent setting with the white Southerners in attendance to raise money for poor kids in Africa. They are doing what I did. They are doing this particular good deed not for some hungry child but for themselves. They have held a grand event to help, while their ‘help’ are immaculately lined up silently crying for help.

I might have pacified my conscience by teaching her daughter to read and write, to sneak in my pocket money for her bus fare or consoling her when she was troubled, but all of that is next to nothing in my eyes. It is barely anything because I thought I was better than her. I allowed myself to think I had the right to entertain such an idea. I thought I was better because I was cocooned in the false security of economic and social status. I was a fool.

I repeat. This letter is not my way of atonement. Instead, it is a reminder.

It is a reminder to be humble.

‘To never forget your own insignificance’.

There lies our salvation.

Dear darling,

Would you prefer to stand underneath the Eiffel Tower and gaze up at the grand structure of steel or would you prefer to marvel at the twinkling wonder from a distance?

—

A fortnight ago, I rested on the steps of a cathedral in the heart of Brussels. I had my back to it.  You can say that I had made the decision to experience the sunset instead of the architecture. Strategically, it was not possible to see them both at the same time.  And when I momentarily turned my back to the bowing sun, the looming building frowned down upon me.

Sunset and the cathedral – thing of beauty, they both were, but achingly different. Fleeting beauty casted longing shadows on the one with strength and permanence.  The meeting was painfully bittersweet but while it lasted, the spectators sighed at the unfolding tale. Lover gazed upon the beloved. Beauty is separation. They meet and separate, again and again. Separation is beauty. I can say that because when the meeting was over, I felt something. I felt content and disoriented. I had gained and lost.

If I go back to that moment in time – I consciously chose the transient.  I might have felt different if I had decided to stare at the cathedral instead. I do not know.

—

Imagine narcissism divorced from reflection. Will you still prefer to be a thing of beauty? To be admired and gazed upon – by yourself and others. Or will you then seek beauty to feast upon? Admire and admiration. Temporary, it is. You will never be able to possess it, either way.

I desire to gaze upon beauty –

‘tis truth.

I desire to gaze upon beauty, from afar –

there is disaster in proximity.

I desire to gaze upon beauty, from afar, for a moment –

that is grace.

You are the sunset and the cathedral.You are perpetually in conversation with the world as it makes you change constantly. Denounce it, I tell you. Get rid of the one who forces your hand. After separation, find solace in your essence.

Do not despair at my words. The truth about beauty lies within you, have the courage to reflect. When truth is within you, keep your gaze on the world but for a moment. No more, lest you forget your inner beauty.

Dear ‘Russian Red’ lipstick,

When I gently pull your black cap and twist your body, boldness swivels out. I wear you and I am transformed into a woman with a purpose. I think:

Passionate. Adventurous. Strong. Sassy.

My back is straighter. I keep my head up. My gait is confident. And my mouth is curved into half a smile. Ah my mouth! Now, there is a story. I think back to our first encounter. I was strongly influenced to meet you by the women I went to college with. They had a comfortable and strong relationship with you, yet I was wary and hesitant. But let me tell you this, when I feasted my eyes on you, I knew I had to have you. It was instant attraction.

I kept you hidden from the world. You were my secret and I was biding my time for the right moment. And that moment materialised. It was an evening mainly comprised of poetry and women. I had bravely volunteered to read my poems in an intimate gathering even though I was hardly a performance poet. I formed an ‘O’ with my lips and whipped you out to form a dark circle. I was hypnotised with the change. I stared and slowly smiled. Oh yes, we were going to be lifetime friends.

But you know, darling, my opinion of you is not shared by many women. When they see you, they think:

Sensual. Indecent. Vulgar. Improper. Unladylike. Inviting.

When I apprehensively introduced you to my mother, she uttered the last word. You turned your face away in shame.  I know that all you desired was to be given a life free of judgment and censor. I write to you now to show you support and to remind you to have courage. In my eyes, you are as beautiful as other shades. I hope you know I admire you.

I admire you because in your own way you have changed women. You have shown them that it is completely acceptable to work hard to be in the limelight and also encourage other women to dance underneath the limelight. How wonderful it will be for all of us to embrace the brave strokes of red without criticism. And shame.

I want to paint you on my mouth and with your help tell the world that on this day – Women’s Day – let’s embrace our daring selves.

Dear crimson shade of my inner beauty, I have to repeatedly smear you on my lips as war paint to remind my self and the world – I am unapologetically, woman.

I hope we continue to be friends – friends who are unabashedly honest, unashamedly courageous and uncompromising on their dreams.

Thank you,

Sania

I am, the sinking weight of deathly Styx

grabbing & pushing mortals down in

the endless torture of afterlife –

the inflated heroes and the rotting commoners –

stripped and levelled in a single line.

The armoured wasted bodies

fighting for a glorified

section in history.

I am, memory –

possessing the blind bard,

invoking a perpetual ballad

of remembrance – murderer and murdered

piled into a jarring epic. Cities crumpled

and lives blown out.

Sing! Evoke the fatigued muses:

daughter sacrificed,

wife raped, mother sold and father

a living ghost – his eyes lined

with the blood of his sons –

the war replayed in a maddening litany.

I am, you – insatiable audience –

Here – you – are, god-like,

condescending puppeteers,

deceitfully observing yet

stringing the plot forward.

you, I

I, you

we take, watch, consume –

hopelessly struggling to gain

control and a grip of fate –

But,

remember you will –

Here lies: waste,

garishly dressed in glory,

reeking of immortality.

—

This poem is written in dedication to Michael Tippett’s King Priam which, in turn is an operatic rendition of Homer’s Iliad.

(Michael Tippett’s King Priam, The Royal Opera House, 2014. Adam Tunnicliffe, Clarissa Meek, Andrew Slater, Adrian Dwyer and chorus. © Richard Hubert Smith, www.richardhs.com)

Dear Dubai,

You are drowning. You are drowning in your thirst to be rich, powerful and famous. The tide of commercialisation, capitalisation, economic acceleration, exploitation and the rest of the ‘tions’ in between are pulling you down. I see a wild desert rose ravaged and abused over time. Your face is unrecognisable. Where are your wrinkles? The very wrinkles that normally hide stories, secrets and memories. You have plastered, pulled and plasticised your natural beauty. No amount of sky scrapers and racy cars will compensate for that.

Apologies for my harsh tone but I am deeply concerned. Will you flinch if I tell you that your admirers are attracted by your ‘tax free salary’ allure? Will you be embarrassed to hear that your biggest attraction is shopping? Will your ego be bruised to find out that you are merely a ‘pit stop’ to other exotic destinations? Of course not. You know all of this already because you have presented yourself in precisely such manner.

I know you are hiding your true self in there. I admire your streets freckled with mosques and schools. Your generosity is praise worthy and your local cuisine is a gastronomic delight. A true connoisseur, you have combined east and west tastefully.

Admiration aside, I worry about you. You are inundated with restaurants and shopping malls. Your roads are full of the latest motor vehicles and your homes adorned with the most expensive of baubles.

I ask: where is your soul?

I did try finding it in the local souks but they were cramped with greedy jewellers and their prey – tourists. Your scarce museums are empty and there are hardly any libraries. I went in search for your past Bedouin life in a festival but all I saw was stalls of clothes and jewellery. The highlight of the desert safari was a short ride on an exhausted camel and a belly dancer being gawked at by lecherous men.

I’ll tell you something. You are the most attractive amongst your sisters. Abu Dhabi is too industrious for my liking and Sharjah is a homely creature. The rest, I have not had the pleasure of meeting personally. You took a risk by investing in the tallest building in the world and I respect your decision. You have the desire to be a pioneer and I understand your wishes. However, please know that there is no shame in taking time out for yourself.

Remember the time when you and your ancestors were renowned for your poetry? Make that accessible for the world. Let your identity be much more than a holiday spot.

I know you follow Islam as your religion which preaches equality between Arabs and non-Arabs, then why is there little interaction between them? Does money and language make a race superior? I ask you, is a person dripping in Chanel, Céline and Chloé a superior being? Don’t look away. I might not have your citizenship or even residency to stay for more than thirty days, but I am a well-wisher. I visit you often, yet leave without learning anything new. I want to be dazzled not merely by the imitation of other cultures but by yours.

Nourish your soul.

Sincerely,
Sania