The Twin Masks We Wear
A tribute to Dhaka's Twin Spirit. This is part of the Myth Ignites Art series.
6/2/20252 min read
Legend has it, that the Lilith House on Alauddin Road in Old Dhaka, owned by a long gone Syrian gentleman, had a sealed cupboard covered with wood and marble containing a statuette of Lilith. The cupboard was accidentally opened during renovations and she was released. I imagined her being being set upon this city in an eternal struggle with Dhaka's native Goddess, Dhakeshwari. The two unseen goddesses and their forever war is evident in the people of this city. Here is the myth I imagined.
The Twin Masks We Wear
Dhaka’s veins bear Buriganga’s secrets whispered,
A murmured truth with twin faces anchored.
I, Oracle, of the weaver’s thread encumbered,
See our souls cloaked in sacred shrouds,
Twin masks we wear, unpeeled from kindred skins.
Each dream we chase, each moment we forget,
Carries our Bong regret, etched in our time’s debt.
When Zainul Abedin’s stark lines rose to construct,
We forged new formulas, hearts set to destruct.
In that crucible, new Dhaka was born, twin-souled,
One mask of earth, one of fire, never foretold.
Dhakeshwari, Hidden Goddess, shaped the first,
Her roots deep in the temple’s sacred clay,
Her mask a weave of rickshaw art and pitha fires,
The bazaar’s ceaseless play, the dawn’s soft prayer.
She binds us in Buriganga’s ceaseless flow,
In the festivals and chants that light our way.
Yet Lilith, Dark Lady, slipped through shadows,
Sealed in Alauddin Road’s haunted chest,
Her mask is born in Mesopotamia’s ash,
Carried on the Raj’s meadows, a rebel’s wrest,
Her stirring fires in our streets defiant,
In the graffiti scars of our city’s walls.
Their clash carved our city’s beating heart,
Dhakeshwari’s grace in our woven threads,
Lilith’s spark in our protests’ fiery breath.
In ’24, we tore down walls, Lilith’s hand,
Yet stood as one, Dhakeshwari’s stand.
No goddess triumphs; their duel our pulse.
We, twin-masked Dhakaites, bear their mark,
In the poet’s verse, the rickshaw’s clatter,
The student’s cry that splits the dark.
Wear your masks, Dhaka—paint them, sing them,
Tell their tale in the city’s endless rhythm.
