Aliyah Daskal Prays In Quarantine
Aliyah Daskal starts her day by thanking God
For returning her soul to the body
After sleep,
What her mother referred to as momentary death.
This prayer is not supposed to have God’s real name: Adonai
For she has not washed her hands yet
And her mother deemed it improper to say His name
Before the washing ritual:
“Because you could touch something unclean,
Such as your genitals,
Or you could have impure dreams
While being asleep”, her mother had said.
So, once she’s purified, she will recite:
“Fear of Adonai is the beginning of wisdom”.
Aliyah Daskal goes to urinate
And later, she recites Asher Yatzar:
“Blessed are You, Adonai,
Our God,
King of the universe,
Who formed man with wisdom
And created within him many openings
And many hollow spaces.”
Aliyah Daskal makes chaye with a French toast.
She usually skips the prayers before meals
And says, ‘Bismillah’ instead –
A word her aunt had taught her in Lahore.
Aliyah Daskal picks up a random book
From her father’s sandalwood shelf:
‘You didn't sow a child in me by Celia Dropkin’ –
She turns some pages and puts it back.
Aliyah Daskal switches on the television
And surfs the channels fast.
‘News channels are good at reminding you
About your futile struggles to survive’,
She recalls her widowed colleague saying that,
Whose husband worked as a public health reporter
And died of the pandemic, he denied.
Aliyah Daskal makes lentils with rice
And sits close to the window
In her 4th story flat:
People continue to commute:
Men wearing masks,
Women wrapped in scarves.
Everyone wants to reach somewhere.
Aliyah Daskal goes through her father’s diary:
Masala Dosa, Bhuna Khichuri, Kolhapuri potato curry –
All recipes are vegetarian
Except one
That she fancies certain nights.
Aliyah Daskal does not like her father’s poems
And wonders, why would he not use rhymes.
Indifferently, she begins to read one page:
“I don’t consider this afternoon to be a new beginning –
although that’s what they want me to believe
for the priest has washed away my sins –
what a drizzle always does to dusty leaves:
it leaves the dust moist
but never really washes it away.
The cacophony of my thoughts echo
in the silent chambers of her body
reminding her of my ugly existence
which wouldn’t let her sleep.”
Aliyah Daskal flips through the diary
And finds another poem:
“My neighbors belong to a sect
which mourn every year
for forty days
and then, there are days
in between
when they mourn again.
In the courtyard of their house,
they take care of a horse
who is chained and covered in black.
On certain nights,
they walk on coals
and use swords to slash
and whip their bare backs.
And here, locked in my room,
I imagine her bare breasts
and dwell on the days gone.”
Aliyah Daskal puts the diary aside
And recites: “Praised are You, Adonai,
My Lord,
And the Lord of my ancestors,
Who closes my eyes
In sleep,
My eyelids in slumber.”
She thinks if her mother had ever taught her a prayer
To heal the hollow spaces within.
Aliyah Daskal tries to sleep
And wonders
If the brain masala recipe
Her father wrote
Is, in fact, a poem
Or can it be a poem
If she wants it to be a poem?
Ammar Aziz is a Pakistani poet and filmmaker. His work has appeared on Wild Court, Poetry at Sangam, Dhaka Tribune, Muse India, Narrow Road, among other places. His multi-award winning films have been screened at several prestigious film festivals around the world. He lives in Lahore.