the leaves on the road, to be raked up into piles. to be raked into the sides of the path. i am man, i can conquer. i say. oh yes.
correction is tedious. the swept up leaf is swept up. it doesn’t stop existing. nature will not succumb to a single will, or even to multiple wills. it just complies temporarily. and then you look away, or find another wrong to righten, and there it is, the leaf, back on the path, as clear as day. right there on the middle, no shifting to the side, because nature is not sheepish. because nothing understands the nature of man more than nature itself. it knows that correction is occasional, and never constant. the tediousness is imminent. and so it waits.
please relish your swept path and hope and hope, i will.
Red veins in eyes. Second day in Male’ and the sun about to set. Voice over the phone is agitated, excited. In a rush we establish the basics. Where Why. I hid in the market, he says. The beard made it easy. I just ran, I say. Down some side road. Not sure which. Now both of us inside, safe. There is a need to fit in too many details into too the smallness of the phone space. Then a simultaneous understanding, the unnecessariness of the urgency. At least there is that.
The old house, the old room. Borrowed leggings and borrowed shirt. A sense of slow outrage, slightly manufactured creeps into where the adrenaline fades. How Dare and What The Hell replacing the Where Why. There are people on the phone and on the internet with similar outrage. Red veins in eyes, and a sense of ‘we are in it now’.
We meet near munnaaru and walk to sosun magu. His shirt is familiar, the choice is purposeful. I feel newlywed inside. Our information matches - there is police inside the hospital - this must be true. Eyes are wide and searching but there is a hum, no furor. The golhaa force is back, he says. I try to fathom this. Near the sosun-majeedi light, on the other side of the road, there is a group of them, glares visible from outside the helmet. BAAGHEE, he yells and it is shrill and accepted by the hum. The policemen look at where the sound comes, across the road, but we had already passed through. No one meets their eye, no one meets ours. I fathom.
Nine days to the crack, eleven to the shatter. Tick-tock.
ފެހިބޯވެފައި އޮންނަ ތެތްގާ
މަތިފަން ގިމަތަ ފުރަންދާ
ދަނބުވެއްޓި ބިމަށް ވެޗަސްފާ
ތެލިމުރަނަ ދަމިލަ ފިލުނުވާ
އެންމެ ހޫނު މެންދުރު، އަޑެއްބަޑެއް ނެތް
ބޮޑު ބިޔަ އޮމާން ބިއްލޫރި ގަނޑެއްމަތީ އިން ހަމައެކަނި ތިއްކަރު ވައިބޮތްކެއްގެ ތެރޭގައި
އެންމެ ކައިރިން މަޑުއްވަރި، ދެން ތަންކޮޅެއް ފަނޑުކޮށް ހިތާދޫ، ދެން އެޔައްވުރެވެސް، އޮޅުގިރި
ވައިބޮކި ފަހަތުން ހިމަހުދު ރޮނގެއް، އެ ރޮނގު ފަހަތުން ޖެހޭ ހަމައެކަނި ވައިކޮޅު
haadha boduvejjey - meeting ihunaafu
June 2012 - Thulhaadhoo
November 2013 - Maamaduvvari