The burning torment I carry in my head and chest, longing to see you—you know nothing of this. Because you don't know, you can't bring yourself to say, "You're terrible, get out of my house!" Your heart doesn't burn when you don't see me. So you can easily say, "Just seeing your face ruins my day!"
I laugh, I laugh with abandon. Yet after marriage, it was this very laughter that kept you from letting me go anywhere. You'd say, "If I don't see your smiling face, I have no strength for work, wife! Don't you dare leave me." Hearing these words, I left my father's home after marriage and never went back, not even for a single day to see my parents.
Time changes... poverty too fades away one day... but when love dies, how can one go on living! People can bear all sorrows, but the pain of lovelessness—it kills you instantly.
Do you remember our tiny household? Those two or three plates and bowls, one pot and a spatula—that's all we had to build our home with? Like children playing house with friends, you and I began our doll's household with those small utensils. You'd only worry: what will happen now, what will we eat tonight, where will we shelter when the rains come!
I'd watch you worry and laugh. I'd think, why does this man fret over so much? Can you even run a household if you worry this much? Whenever I asked you anything, you'd say, "All my worries are for you, wife. I never thought about myself before marriage, don't now either. I can't find peace if I don't take proper care of you." And all I thought about was how to care for you.
You thought of me, and I of you. We had no other work in our new household. Once a day we'd cook some rice, eat it with lentils, or when there were no lentils, we'd share from one plate with dried chili mixed in. After eating, we'd go lie down under the field's shade.
It was the month of Ashadh then. You'd sit on the veranda watching the rain and say, "What will we eat tomorrow? If the moneylender doesn't give us something, where will I go?" I'd say nothing, wouldn't even dare look at your face. My heart would ache, thinking you might be crying! I couldn't bear your tears—seeing you cry made me want to die.
My whole body aches; but greater than that pain is the one in my heart. I can't tell anyone about this poison in my mind. My heart burns to ash day by day. Now I feel even these ashes will blow away, and I won't be able to claim them as my own. Alas, even the ashes of my heart are beyond me!
Tell me, why do people hide their heart's sickness? Why don't they let anyone know what's in their heart? What would happen if they knew? Would people turn their faces black? Mock them? Spread all the secret words around? These are the fears, aren't they? But tell me, isn't my dying inside from these fears a greater terror? Is it my crime that I want to cry out loud sometimes?
Let it be then! Everyone listen, my heart is sick, terribly sick. Whoever you are, wherever you are, give word to the person of my heart—I won't survive much longer. Before I go, I want to see that person once, with all my soul. Listen, are you listening, my neighbors, friends, relatives?
Where are you who promised to stand by me? Where are you now? Has your promise become just empty words to you? Only words and nothing more...eh!?
Don't wake up crying in the middle of the night, thinking of me. When you cry I feel it, when you smile I feel that too. We didn't just share a house—we grew up together, we came to know each other's hearts completely. So tell me, how can I be well if you weep? Don't cry, my golden one!
Can people really cry this much? Our bodies may be separate, but has anyone been able to separate our hearts? Will they ever be able to? Don't be so afraid. On our wedding night, I touched your forehead and promised that whatever happens, however much trouble comes, however much want stays in our house, I'll never leave you and go anywhere. Do you remember?
And you also promised that whatever happens, you'd never touch liquor, never give any other woman a place in your heart besides me. You and I, we both kept our words all these years. We loved each other so much that other people in the village would burn with envy seeing us, needling us with words at every turn.
Though you'd get upset sometimes, I'd just laugh at their words. They've never loved anyone in their lives, never known what it feels like to receive love, and never will. Should I be angry at their words? Those who never received love—if they don't burn, who will?
Remember how on full moon nights, seeing me cooking, you'd grit your teeth and say, "Can't you put on henna? Will you celebrate Eid with bare hands?" I'd laugh and say, "I'm not going anywhere, so what's the point of henna?" You'd get more upset and say, "Quiet! Stop cooking and come here; let me apply henna for you. I want to see you beautiful. And tomorrow after morning prayers I'll bring alta from the market." You were such a child!
I'd burst into giggles. Quickly finishing our chores, we'd spread the mat and sit together. With trembling hands you'd apply the henna, mixing and spreading it, scolding yourself the whole time. I'd laugh with delight. You'd say, "Go wife, quickly wash your hands. If this messy color sets, it'll be a disaster!" I'd say, "No, I won't go at all. I'll stay just like this. When this henna turns red, I'll show all the wives in the neighborhood. They want to know what my farmer husband, my so-called good-for-nothing, gives me! What happiness I find in your home! Raising both hands to show this henna, I'll say, 'Everyone look, this is my happiness! In this happiness I make my home, understand? Do you have this happiness in your homes? Ha ha... I know you don't have this happiness, you're simply not destined for it. It takes destiny to receive love, and Allah gave me that destiny—that's why you all burn so. Keep burning, burn and turn to ash, all of you! Ha ha ha...'"