This past Saturday, I had the privilege of meeting and interviewing Dilruba Ahmed, author of Dhaka Dust, a delightful collection of poetry that I read and re-read with great pleasure. I first encountered Ahmed’s work in the form of a powerful letter she wrote for the Asian American Literary Review, titled “To Agha Shahid Ali.” In it, she reacts to a statement made by the Kashmiri-American poet:
“I wish all this had not happened…This dividing of the country, the divisions between people–Hindu, Muslim, Muslim, Hindu–you can’t imagine how much I hate it. It makes me sick.” Similarly, we may feel enraged, appalled, dismayed, and frustrated with recent events that emphasize those “divisions between people” here in America and around the world. And as writers, we may find ourselves wondering how to make sense of our impulse to write when other, larger matters seem far more pressing.
She goes on to respond to her own question: “If literature confronts us with our humanity, if it proves to us the shared desires and struggles of our individual lives, then literature, particularly writing by Asian Americans and other minorities, is arguably more important now than ever before.”
Agreed. And in the context of the mayhem that struck Mumbai this past week, even more poignant. Ahmed’s own work can be both whimsical and somber. In one of my favorites, “Rumor,” she paints the portrait of a woman who jogs in a sari.”Rumor had it/ she jogged the river trail/ in a sari. Chiffon layers draping crooked arms.” In another, “Thinking of His Jaywalking Ticket While Boarding a Plane at SFO,” Ahmed vividly recounts her own fears for her husband as the family experiences post-9/11 suspicion at airports across America. “Which swallowed Arabic vowel will trap him now?” she asks. “You liked to tease and say, mothers, do not name your sons Muhammad, but you do not joke anymore/You don’t joke about anything.” And here’s another of my favorites:
It’s wine I need. Is it a sin to have another?
No harm in merlot, no harm in another.
In Ramadan, we’ll break our fast with dates and wine–
Must we pray in one room and dance in another?
Crushed blossoms at the end of the summer:
teach me how to coax nectar from the bloom of another.
Burned rice on the stove again: what’s to love
but my imperfections–you’ll forgive me another.
Butter by a kettle always melts, warns the proverb.
Heated, greased, we slip one into the other.
When, inexplicably, you enter my prayers,
I hear messages from one god or another.
Me encanta cantar, cuando estoy sola, en el carro.
mother tongue dissolves. I speak in another.
Heart thief, enter the fields like a woman in love,
vase in one hand, shears in the other.
I urge you to check out more of her poetry – I link to several more below. And you can find the full interview I did with Dilruba at my personal podcast, Talkadelphia. (Apologies for the ambient noise, it was all done in a coffee shop.) If you happen to be in Philadelphia this weekend, you can join me this Saturday and come hear Dilruba read her poetry in person.
Dilruba Ahmed’s Poems: Dhaka Dust, Mother, Roulade, Rumor, Venice during an Election Year in the U.S., Cathedral, Gazal
Delightful! Thank you for sharing.
” Chiffon layers draping crooked arms” reminds me of my first fall at Ohio State when I attended a football game at my husband’s urging, foolishly clad in my best chiffon sari. The edges got hopelessly crumpled and torn by my trudging in the unfamiliar snow in unaccustomed boots. I have always hated football.
I would love to discuss more of Ahmed’s poems.
champa: …reminds me of my first fall at Ohio State when I attended a football game at my husband’s urging, foolishly clad in my best chiffon sari
Worst. Idea. Ever. Worse, even, than a guy wearing his doti to go rock-climbing.
Glad you liked it champa! I really enjoyed the book. One delightful nugget after another. Here’s another one I LOVE: At the Stove-Side. http://www.foxchasereview.org/11WS/DilrubaAhmed.html
She watches me always, I think— especially in April, when crocuses poke through and die before you blink. I lost her twenty years ago this week.
oh i relate, to the entire poem that turns on those lines. and it has been longer than that, and still…
She rhymed another with another. I’m ok with this.
Are book and poetry readings more prevalent among Indian Americans compared to other demographics? I see a lot of these kind of blog items on sepia and other indian american blog sites. I think there are quite a few of the literary kinds among Persians in the west too. Since I am not into this kind of arts, I am just curious as to what factors contribute to so many Indians that seem to be into this. Not trying to be negative. Just honest curiosity. Good luck to the poet in this article.
poetry readings are wonderful and all poets, regardless of demo, perform. it is a performance art. i am not a poetry person but i am hooked on people reading out their poetry. there is an art and form to it, musicality. come to think of it, like a mushaira, or a gazal recitation.
neemo: I know a thing or two about writing “Ghazals”, as I do write them in Gujarati Language. Per the classical Urdu Ghazals in the tradition of Aamir Khushro, Ghalib, Mir etc.. and per the laws of Urdu Prosody, the Kaffiya, Radiff, Matla and Makta in this “Ghazal” by Dilruba Ahmed are correct. Whether you are OK with it or not is irrelevant, as she has followed the proper protocol IMHO.
wow thats class
“Worst. Idea. Ever. Worse, even, than a guy wearing his doti to go rock-climbing.”
sorry, disagree. dhoti parts in the middle somewhere, a wrap skirt in essence, and is held up by will power. sari has folds, for insulation.
of course the choli bares the waist to the skin. what to do, we are this way only.
I’d like to contribute my poem:
Ordlay, ivus-gay, or-yeah essings-blay, ahmen-ay.
Oh, I don’t know what to write inside my brain wants to fight
and so I log on to get inspired pulling words out with mental pliers
read the poetry thread, remind myself zed’s dead or my name’s not fred, and dint make my bed.
poets they come from every direc-SHOIN happy and sad, like two sides of a coin
dilruba’s words, creating sounds of zoink. saw her pic, said to myself, I’d like to boink.
A Haiku.
Reading a poem Look at the poets picture she have a nice rack?
A Haiku.
She said, “If literature confronts us with our humanity, if it proves to us the shared desires and struggles of our individual lives, then literature, particularly writing by Asian Americans and other minorities, is arguably more important now than ever before.â€
To which I would say, first, that the “desires and struggles of our individual lives” are no more and probably less than those of past generations, and second, Asian Americans and other minorities do not have a monopoly on those desires and struggles, because of they did, they would not be shared. I think the difference of opinion on this second point lies in Ahmed’s assumption that a ethno-cultural minority must necessarily be disadvantaged. We live in a world where diversity is cherished. Frankly I think she is regurgitating leftist tripe.