This week’s poem is about my interesting and numerous neighbours in Dhaka, so resilient in the face of too many trials.

Dreams of my neighbours

Blocks bathed in moonlight, clocks way past midnight,

Alone on the rooftop I stand

Ten-million sleepers – ten-million deep breathers,

Exhaling heavy hot air 

Their dreams light the night, and moon shares the sight

of pictures that grow in their sleep.   

 

Girls dream in one voice of a groom of their choice,

handsome and moneyed as well

Bangles of gold, to have and to hold,

hoping his mother is kind

Old men still clutch tight to a dream of youth’s kite,

though storms snapped the string years ago.

 

Dream Ramadan fasting, that faithfulness lasting,

togetherness ends aching days,

with Iftari treats, date-flavoured sweets,

steaming rice piled high on plates

Mangoes and jack-fruits, end distant bus routes,

nostalgic Eid days out of town.

 

Stitchers dreams patterns embroidered for fashions,

slim fingers remember in sleep

How people would stare at the garments they’d wear,

if only they sewed for themselves

Exhausted young maid still learning her trade,

dreaming her mother is near.

 

Sleep clutching cheap phone, maybe son will call home,

His journey to help pay her bills,

he’s travelled to work and she’s proud he’ll not shirk,

but she’s missing his voice in the hall.

Drummers dream sounds that hard fingers will pound,

the heartbeats that binds all these lives.

 

Dreams of far places, sharp-nosed bearded faces,

names you have heard all your life,

the call of the Mullah, the dreaming of Mecca,

to fly there just once in your life

Praying to live right – every day and at night,

Inshallah your dreams will come true