Come, let us remain still

Our love is still so young, so
we can't wake up this early and say, 'Enough, I'm done!'
I've never washed your dirty clothes to see how much grime clings there.
I've never had to trim your fingernails and toenails.
When your head throbs with pain, I've never once
rubbed warm oil and lemon into your scalp with gentle hands,
never said, 'Now close your eyes and rest a while.'

Day after day, from one moment to the next,
that monotonous slumping before your laptop in every free hour—
I haven't had to endure that either.
Every mealtime when you're home but giving time to no one,
I've never had to start eating alone at the dinner table
after waiting and waiting, finally swallowing my food
with irritation and a chest full of hurt—
the way your family does it.

Your clothes, your bed, your bathroom, the dust on your scattered books—
I've never cleaned any of it.
How much you smell of sweat when you return from work,
they know that quite well.
You know, I still haven't learned to recognize your scent!
Your food, what you love to eat, what you eat well,
what's bad for your body, which dishes you consume
with great dislike and reluctance but finish anyway—
I don't know any of this yet.

Every day heading to work, on holidays chatting with friends,
going to the market, to the salon, at the office, parties, or
family occasions—exactly which clothes you'll wear,
none of that falls to me to decide beforehand.
When you suddenly fall ill, I've never once
rushed to your room every few minutes with this and that,
keeping watch over every moment like your mother does!

Can you tell me, with all this inadequacy, how do I
keep saying I love you day after day?
Do you know I truly lack the courage or right
to show anger toward you,
to express irritation, or to storm off
after hearing you scold me?

Who does such things, tell me?
Who can say with such authority, 'Enough, I won't bear it anymore!'?
Who am I to you? How much of you have I seen? Have I really endured anything?
How much do I know of you? What have I done for you?
How much have I borne you that way, the way they all
bear you every single day?
Your driver loves you more than I do!
He doesn't go around day and night saying 'I love you, I love you...'
but he gets you to work on time, navigating
all uncertainties and accidents.

Irritation doesn't come so easily!
You can't just blurt out—'I'll stay forever!', 'I'm leaving then!'...such words.
Can you really start an argument over every little thing so easily?
Does every answer so easily breed a counter-answer?
The love I feel—anyone can feel that!
Sometimes I'm the one who's far too troublesome, stubborn at times,
I don't really worry about what's happening or not happening on your end,
I only want to claim what's mine!

Sometimes, whenever such thoughts come to mind,
I feel like a disgusting insect
that lives only in search of food each day.
You never give me an inch, not even by mistake,
you pile a thousand words on top of every word I say!
Still, at least I'll have something to say—
whatever else, I have listened to you!