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Bakhtiyar Ali
210
My secret, her secret
conceived you,
Love created you: kneel
and prostrate yourself to
no one,
You who are conceived of
imagination’s secrets, of
being’s enigma
These are lines no other
human being but me
knows or understands, the
blasphemous verse recited
by the ghazal-speaking
youth on the night he was
drunk. They are the same
lines he recited when
sated after intercourse.
The mullah who baptised
you was a religious scholar
and a friend. We fought
over and debated matters
of faith and the hidden
aspects of Sharia. He was
a keeper of secrets and
knew something of the
torments of my heart. I
made him swear that he
would bring me the secret
of that poem and write
down for me the lines
inscribed on your delicate
flesh. He was an adept
code reader, someonewho
could resolve mysteries.
No one else could have
read the secret of that
line. That day I was on fire
from morning to evening. I
oscillated between fire and
tears and, when he arrived
with the lines, I was in
agony. He was astonished
at my tears and moans,
and as soon as he said the
first line, I recited the full
couplets to him. He bid me
goodbye in great sadness
for this was a mystery he
could not resolve. Who
could
understand
it?
Who? You were my son
and my evidence is the
verse drowned in your
blood and your flesh. I am
your father, an imaginary
father. You are my son, my
imaginary son.