ތަޅަންމަތި

ދިލަގަދަ މަގުތަކެއްގައި އަހަރެމެން އުޅެބޮޑުވީ ކަންމަތީ ފިހާރަތަކުން ގަނެގެން އެޕޯލޯކަމުން ޑޮންޑޮން ބޮމުންނޭ. އޭރު ހުވަފެން ބެލީމޭ، ވަށައިގެން އަރަމުން ދިޔަ އިމާރާތްތަކުގެ އަޅި ފާރުތަކުގައި މި ހުވަފެންތަކުގެ މަންޒަރުތައް ކުރެހީމުއޭ. ވާންއޮތްތަނަށް އަހަރެމެން ގެންދާނީ މިހުވަފެންތައްކަން ގަބޫލުކުރީމޭ. އަހަރެމެން ދުނިޔެކުރެން އެދުނީ އުފަލަށޭ، އެލިބުމަށް އަމުރުކުރީމޭ.

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އަހަރެމެން ކްލާސް ޕާޓީ ބޭއްވީމޭ، ހެސްކިޔާފަ ބޭއްވީއޭ. ބިޓުންނަށް ޓެގުކޮޅު ބަހައިގެން ގެނުވާ، ރަތްބޮކިދިއްލައިގެން ތިބެ ކޮންމެވެސް ގެއެއްގެ ކުޑަކޮޓަރިއެއްގައި ތުންފަތްތައް ފުފެންދެން ދޮންދީހެދީމޭ. ޕާޓީ ނިމިގެން، ގޮންޑިތައް ފުންޔަކަށް ޖަހައިގެން އުހުގައި އަހަރުމެންތިބީ ތަހުތުތަކެއްގައި ހެނޭ، އަހަރެމެންގެ މުޅިދުނިޔޭގައި ރަސްކަންކުރަނީ ހަމަ ހުދް އަހަރެމެނޭ. 

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ފޫހިފިލުވަން އަހަރެމެން ކުރިކަމެއް ކިޔައިދެންހޭ؟ މަގުމަތީ އުޅޭ މުޔައިން ގެޔައްވައްދާ އެމީހުންނަށް ހަޖޫޖަހާ ހެދީމޭ. އެމީހުން ކިޔައިދޭ ވާހަކަތައް އަޑުއަހާފައި މޫނުމައްޗައް ހުނީމުއޭ، އެމީހުންގެ ކުލަވަރު ހަމަޖެހުމުން، އޮޅުމަށް، އޮޅުމުން، ރުޅިއަށް ބަދަލުވާ ތަންބެލީމޭ. އެކަމަކު އެ މޮޔަ ތުންފަތްތައް ތެޅޭ ކޮންމެފަހަރަކު، އެކަޅިތައް އަވަރުވާ ކޮންމެ ހިންދެއްގައި ހާދަބޮޑަށޭ އަހަރެމެން ހުނީ، ހާދަ ބާރަށޭ، ހާދަ އިހާނެތިކޮށޭ. 

let’s look at the string, he says, and we look at the string. we walk up close, over the blacksoil over the kilaafani, and there is the raindrop, like a huvani on a string.

the string is strong, the string is something. one of us, the oldest, with a straight-bowl haircut and large eyes, he reaches, but the kaafa is hushiyaaru, the kaafa says don’t DON’T touch the string, it can be anything. you can look at it but you cannot cannot touch it, he says.

we keep looking at the string, as it falls, jerkily down, we watch the raindrop as it still sticks to the string and we wonder how it is possible. by then it was at eye level and the bespectacled ugly, she looks at a small herself in a rain globe, hello, that girl is me. 

and then in that silent morning of awe and wonder and trepidation, alifulhu wakes up. 

so in this story there is a sunlight fenda and there are two jamburoalu gas (one red one white) and perhaps four girls and two boys between ten and two. in worn cotton and accompanied by a worn-cotton of a kaafa with a worn-cotton voice who is telling this story, for the first time although of course, he will tell it so many times later.

the story begins on a selfsame fenda, perhaps a few days before this day, where the barefoot kids are sitting on the fenda-undhoali asking the worn cotton kaafa to tell them a story.

their mothers are at work, their mothers are in their rooms, their mothers are, hidden, for this story, away behind a wall of everyday mother things, that leaves these children free, and alive in sun-and-kaafa-haze. their playground is the blacksoil, dappled jamburoalu leaf silhouettes, right beside the fenda.

their fathers, you say? their fathers are even further, their fathers are sipping gin tonics at an office desk, their fathers are dictators of curriculum and bis keemiya teatimes. they are all hidden, there are all not-there for the duration and how free that makes these children and their kaafa. 

so these children beg and this kaafa tells, of this raindrop on a string, a single raindrop that falls from the sky, trembling on a jerky string that suspends this raindrop between the earth and the sky. and how noticeable is a single raindrop alone, he says, how sharp it glitters, how very shaky is its existence. what a lot it carries within this little round sphere, an entire world of worn cotton and bare feet and jamburoalu leaves and love and sun, inside a quivering tiny silver globe. 

what is the string, the children ask. the string, ah, the string. the kaafa says. have a think. what IS the string? 

twice or thrice, there is a sigh on the wind when it feels like someone’s yearning from several years ago has come to brush upon your cheek. 

that is what these deep sighs are, these large hunks of hair that we pull inside ourselves, only to let go when they do not fill any of those craters of inner want, those bastard ulcers of deprivation, destitution. except that once inside, these minute particles of carbon dioxide and oxygen of nothingness begin to feed upon this inner hidden knowledge, and then, form  themselves, by witnessing what no one else could, those inner parts, those gaping red sores boiling with want and need or confusion, some temporary, some permanent, that so many try so hard to articulate, as i try here and now, but never will or could. except that this air, comes out alive then, formed like prophets, out of nothing, crimson, sacred, having borne witness to the existence of the denied, the abandoned, the relished, the unproven.

so that is what it is, several years later, against your face, that selfsame hunk of air, pinked almost out of existence, trying again, to know, to remember lest it forgets, lest it dies, coaxing itself around your breath, allowing its fading colour to be sucked in through your nostril. remind me, it says, allow me to exist again, to get off on my own sanctity, for it can only happen could i witness, again, that existence of nothing within you, what no one else can. show me your wretched, goddammit. let me inside to bear witness to your fucking lacks, again.

and you allow it then, this dying, fighting air, to reach inside, to see the old holes that birthed them closed, sewn hastily or crusted over with perverted replacements (other stories, all of them). then, for the dying air to delight upon and suck up, like thirst, those new liquid potholes of red loss promising existence. red like immortality, red like conception. 

for what are we to do, but?

why then, do you mock us with your teeth big and your hips, these jangling medallions across your skin, this simperingness, this lip-smacking, rib-tickling obscenity of yourself? our interiors are fine in their suburban-shopping-centre-on-a-wednesday-morning desolation, inhabited by our inner freaks and lackeys nursing silent erections while waiting for the next big sale at the reject shop. this has been our lives all our lives long, please calm down.

like plastic flowers proffered for admiration, your shimmering legness foxtrots and splits across a gaudy floor, and i can hear my mother groan across a room, a groan of lazy good-taste and habits. it is not me, it is my mother, who is circling the bits of you with this red-pen, squeaking nib and  a routine sigh of a nap withheld. it is she, not me. 

from The Last Sailors - Maldives 1984

from The Last Sailors - Maldives 1984