Revert

By B.B.

Ramadan is behind the door,

She counts daily, meticulously,

The number of Ajwa dates she will need –

The places she will hide them –

And the day passes by.

 

Night falls. A wintery darkness.

She hides leftover food under her bed,

To the prying eyes of insects,

Yet, to the watchful eye of her Lord,

 

She wakes up to a Sehri of cold food,

Sour and rotting,

No hot parathas nor coffee

Fed by warm motherly hands,

It is a Sehri of fear and of silence,

In the dark, like a thief stealing himself.

And the day passes by.

 

They said today is Eid!

She got no gifts from her dad,

Her mum cooked no biryani,

Her brother did not take her to the mosque,

It’s just another day that passes by.

 

From her father comes another slap,

“I told you, this is not part of us!”

One that has not stroked her pink cheeks yet

Another night she falls asleep,

To the lull of her wet prayer mat,

Dhikr on her lips, hope in her heart

That someday, somehow, they will

Understand if not realize.

 

There is yet a pearl,

Waiting to drop off her eyes,

With a heart of faith and sorrow

That she hides from them all.

She collects all her pearls every day,

And presents them to Him,

In the depths of sad nights

And this will pass by too.

 

B.B. is a poet from Mauritius, a small island in the Indian Ocean.