3 men, 1 packet of flatbread

A poem about a man I saw in the gas station, and thoughts and observations about it.

Bending time is not an option.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ His white twist-tie ring

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ from a 1 riyal flatbread packet

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ will not take him to his lover.

The summer sun will not sleep quicker.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ His daydreams will not massage his

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎head with oil, like his mother,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ who he is afraid of video calling

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ in this condition.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

‎ ‎Now the only thing lingering in the air,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ is the smell of petrol,

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ the sound of cars and the

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ silence of everything

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ that reminds him of

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ a Friday at home.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

In a few hours, ‎

he will have to work again,

‎ ‎ in heat that isn't so bad compared

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ to his city, but at least he had

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ family.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

His mother sends a voice message:

‎ ‎

"Dear, your sister has been admitted in a good English-medium school, we can eat 3 times a day now instead of 1, and things have never been better, Shukr Allah, all because of you after His mercy. Dear, please call, I want to hear your voice. How are you, are you eating well? When will your company give you a vacation to come back? What did you have for lunch today? I remembered you so much today I made your favourite Pulao."

‎ ‎ ‎

His eyes started to blur so quickly,

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ he ate that last bite of dry flatbread

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ and he whispered a faint prayer

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ of thanks to His Lord

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He will strive, and he will hope, and

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ he will not go home just yet.

My dads picture, 2024

This is a poem based on 3 men I saw in the gas station. Here's the entire context.

After my CAIE exams, on a typical Friday, my family and I went out in June's heat to have lunch. Sometimes, we don't really have much of a plan of where exactly to go, so it turns into a long drive. And if any restaurant seems appealing, we eat. Long drives are my favourite, and especially right after exams. There is so much to see and so much to observe. Long drives along with long walks, are the best times I can think about poetry, or anything creative in fact.

When stopping in a random gas station to refuel our car, I noticed 3 South Asian men sitting on the pavement in front of Max Food. They were wearing simple checkered shirts and denim jeans. The one in the middle had just torn apart a packet of flatbread and gave one to each of his companions.

Initially, I assumed they must be eating it with something, maybe chai or maybe some gravy, but there was nothing left in that blue shopper the man in the middle was holding. That was it, that was their lunch. On a Friday, a holiday, sitting on the pavement in front of a local fast food restaurant, 1 riyal dry bread. They didn't talk to each other, because maybe the silence was already so overwhelming. I didn't know if they were friends or brothers or cousins, but it was quite clear that they stuck to each other no matter what.

They were not beggers, they were hardworkers. They were expats, just like us. They had family to feed in their home countries, whether it's India or Pakistan or Bangladesh. I still think about them, how they daydreamed within the cloudless skies and hard concrete. I wonder if these men decline video calls with their mothers because they don't want them to witness the puffed eyes, the defined cheekbones and the uncut messy hair, but they would never say that. They would say it's the bad wifi. They will stick to audio calls.

How do you go from eating your mother's flavourful food, even if it was scarce, to eating dry bread, silently with the smell of petrol lingering in the air? Daydreaming about something after Jumua prayer, just something, that was louder than the commotion of the cars and people around.

These men clearly send every penny made to their families, even if they get extra money for food and clothes. Nothing could stop them from forgetting themselves, just to yearn to go back to those who will never forget them. It didn't matter, they had each other, they had family, even if far. Nothing could stop them from working hard for their families, even if it means to sacrifice their needs.

The man in the middle was playing with the metal tie that came with the packet of flatbread. He bended it into a ring for his ring finger, and put his hand out to see how it looks. I wonder if he has a lover back home. If he has someone special yearning to see him everyday, mentioning his name in her every prayer, dreaming about him despite. Despite the world's demands and the burden of money. Despite everything, love exists, even when your world is in shambles.

Sitting in the backseat of my car, having my family right with me, having the option to even think WHAT to eat without hesitating, and my biggest stress was exams. What a blessing. How many things do I have to take granted before they disappear? How many seconds or minutes days or months or years do I have to go about without realizing every blessing, without loving and being content with whatever I have? It is so easy to deter from the path of gratefulness when you're always comparing your life to people that *seemingly* have more than you. In a world where we can access genocide quite literally on our fingertips, human nature is to put ourselves in misery by complaining, even if thousands dream for what you have.

Allah said,

لَيِن شَكَرْتُمْ لَازِيدَنَّكُمْ

If you give thanks, I will give you more

love,

afifa