Dhaka myths

I have become the smoke 
In someone's teacup at 8,
The quiet breeze that flickers a candle–
before the call to prayer.
Dhaka, you burned me to ash
And tried to mold me like Hephaestus 
As if I were your forged blade,
Your myth-woven metal.
But still, I remain.
I walked your streets
With a heart full of wonder,
An echo of Athena in my breath.
But I bore no armour,
No father's name in marble.
So you took my questions
And turned them to fire.
Curiosity became curse,
And I–too proud, too much.
But still, I remain.
The sun goes down,
And with it, my name fades into shadow.
Men rise like minor gods,
Owning streets as if they'd built them from thunder and bone.
But I was no Kali.
I held back the storm.
And for that,
You burned me,
With stares, stares like daggers,
With silences, silences deeper than riverbeds,
With rickshaw rides.
Rides that felt like sacrificial rites.
But still, Dhaka,
I remain.
Here, the victims are carved into monsters.
Like Medusa, 
We are myths before we are memories.
Our stories twisted
Until even our reflection is too dangerous to hold.
But still the throne is passed
To the loudest liars.
You are Zeus 
Lightning without consequence,
Judgment without justice.
And you burned me a thousand times.
But still, I remain.
My ashes scatter
Through Bailey Road, Moghbazar
Settling in the cracks of old tea stalls,
Clinging to lamp posts like forgotten prayers.
They flicker with a flame
That refuses to go out 
Unlike your faded election posters,
Ghosts of promises that never learned to speak truth.
You never loved goddesses, Dhaka.
Only men.
Only fire.
Only silence.
You burn and burn
And call it creation.
But until your final flame flickers out,
And until my last breath curls into the wind,
I'll remain. I will remain. 

Maliha Fairuz Mahi occasionally writes for Star Books and Literature.