Hanging Together Inside
The floor of his room was empty, except for old newspapers and some books dozing with dusty covers near a necktie. A chair leaned against a dilapidated wooden table like a man who had fallen asleep with his head on it. The room’s walls were pockmarked by numerous nail holes left from hanging pictures and an incongruous set of posters. On the wall hung a shirt the hand of neglect had circled with dust as its immaculate whiteness vanished. Beside it, from the head of another nail, hung a pair of brown trousers soiled apparently with spots of oil. In addition, a shoe and its mate languished in a corner next to the body of a black leather belt, which had lost its sheen.
A shadow slowly departed through a gap by the door, which stubbornly remained open even after a man’s hand tried to shut it. The closed window, though, retained the stench, which suggested the window had not been opened for a long time. The pair of pants fidgeted squeamishly and asked, “Why has he abandoned us, as if he hadn’t worked his butt off to buy us? He hasn’t worn me for a month, and that makes me feel I’m a chain shackling him to pain—after he nearly went crazy dreaming about me. Remember how he used to walk past the clothing store, day after day, slowing his pace as if melting with regret when he saw all the other trousers like me gradually disappear from the shop?
When we did meet—I mean when he saved up my price—he did not wait till an afternoon breeze had brushed aside the noon heat. No, he raced to me, smelling sweaty, just as the shopkeeper was closing the store for a siesta. He clung to the door with both hands, pleading, till the man opened the shop. Then he purchased me, expending all his money and many words of gratitude. He brought me here, and it was the same for you, Shirt. You were fresh, clean, and fragrant. Do you recall how he bathed, donned us, and rushed to her? Do you remember that rendezvous?”
2
The shirt sighed regretfully and replied, “Yes, I saw her smile at him. They sat down together. She caressed my sleeve and called it chic. Then my threads almost melted from her whispered words.” The pair of trousers trembled and shouted with rage: “But what’s happening? Why doesn’t he celebrate us now? Why is he content to wear shabby clothes so matted with dirt they resemble his hair and beard?” The shirt replied sarcastically, “Do you think you’re clean? Now that he doesn’t think to shake the dirt from your creases?”
The pair of trousers shuddered so nervously that it almost fell to the floor. Then it said, “Why mock me? You haven’t reveled in the scent of clean soap for a long time or smelled the way you did the first time they met. Have you forgotten that?” The shirt replied dreamily, “That’s true, Friend. I’ve wanted to retain her scent. Don’t you remember how close she was to him? He wished to possess her scent for a lifetime but failed. These humans lose touch with reality and cling instead to the fringes of a dream.” The trousers’ voice had a sorrowful rasp when it stammered, “What’s frightening is that he no longer needs us! He no longer wants us! He no longer loves us! I understand that love is needy and that he’s replaced us with other old, shabby clothes; but why?”
The shirt rested its collar on its sleeve thoughtfully and observed, “Some people are crazy. Yes, most people are crazy. But why do they toil to acquire us and then slouch around in old clothes?”
The pair of trousers scoffed, “Perhaps it’s nostalgia?”
The shirt wondered aloud: “Nostalgia for whom? For what? Nostalgia for poverty? For filth? For body odor?”
3
The pair of trousers shook violently. “I beg you! Be quiet. Keep still long enough for us to plan what we should do if he’s gone a long time.” Pointing to the belt and necktie, it asked:
“Should we fall and kill ourselves like those two? Or go dumb like his black shoes?”
“Or, should we wait to become a tasty meal for the armies of moths that consumed the contents of his wardrobe before he kicked the remnants outside?”
The shirt replied in a mournful whisper, “I think she won’t return to him and he won’t return to us, even though I watched their shadow puppets sketched on the ground—when they met . . . and parted. He was so enchanted by her that he forgot: what’s impossible always remains impossible. He wasn’t watching with the eye of his spirit. Oh, my friend, without him, our existence makes no sense. The worst humiliation is being unable to reject what you hate, and I hate being discarded. I hate anyone who discards me. I even hate the person who made me—for what?”
The pair of trousers wondered aloud, “Aren’t you blowing the situation out of proportion? You are something. You exist.”
The shirt replied intensely, “Says who? A thing without the person, who just departed and forgot about us is, nothing. Our existence is a logical contradiction. We cannot exist without the body we clothe, that becomes us as we become him.” The pair of trousers asked sadly, “Will he return?”
The shirt replied softly, “I don’t know, Friend. Perhaps.”
By Faleeha Hassan
Translated by William M. Hutchins
Faleeha Hassan is a poet, teacher, editor, writer, and playwright born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now lives in the United States. Faleeha was the first woman to write poetry for children in Iraq. She received her master’s degree in Arabic literature, and has now published 26 books, her poems have been translated into English, Turkmen, Bosnian, Indian, French, Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain, Korean, Greek, Serbia, Albanian, Pakistani, Romanian, Malayalam, Chinese, ODIA, Nepali and Macedonian language. She is a Pulitzer Prize Nominee for 2018, and a Pushcart Prize Nominee for 2019. She’s a member of the International Writers and Artists Association. Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020, and the Winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021). She served on the Women of Excellence selection committees for 2023, was a winner of a Women In The Arts award in 2023 and a Member of Who’s Who in America 2023. She’s on the Sahitto Award’s judging panel for 2023 and a cultural ambassador between Iraq and the US.