chandkatukra

[chandkatukra]

[chandkatukra]

Imdad Barbhuyan

[chandkatukra]

for ammi.

my mother is not my mother.

she is the one who bathed me from childhood

the one who held me when i cried over boys 

the one who sang to me before i went to bed

she is the one who tightly braided my hair and doused it with mustard oil

she is the one who taught me how to pray when i was ten

she is the one who gave me generational gold for my wedding, not know she may not be there for it

but she is not the one who birthed me 

she is the one who lied for sixteen years

my mother is not my mother.

my brothers are not my brothers.

they are the ones who fought for me 

the ones who killed mosquitoes before they stung and stole blood 

the middle one who stayed up late at night with me to read, escaping into forgotten realms and worlds that were not our own

the youngest one who played with me and pulled my braids, slicking his hands with mustard oil

the eldest who bought me orange shaved ice before dinner, sneaking it into my bedroom away from our parents  

but they are the ones who kept my mother's secret 

they are the ones who lied to me for sixteen years

my brothers are not my brothers.

yesterday i had no sisters

now I have five

older sisters who will braid my hair and put bright makeup on my face

sisters who will let me borrow their clothes

younger sisters who will stay up all night and gossip

sisters who will teach me how to run a household

sisters who will teach me how to cook, how to haggle at the bazaar, and how to dance with two left feet

sisters who will laugh and cry with me while we sit on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night

but they are not my brothers.

[chandkatukra]

sabr

confined to the four corners of a prayer mat, 

i seek safety and sanctuary in a higher power. 

i look for answers found within 

transitions, rituals and the institution. 

in times of comfort, 

i turn towards prayer. 

on paper and to God and God alone,

my thoughts and frustrations come out. 

i ask for comfort and sabr, 

knowing that willing it is the only way i can have it. 

[chandkatukra]

Are we what we do with time, or are we what time does with us?

— Mahmoud Darwish

[chandkatukra]

soft-spoken

and because my voice is not loud, 

i stay hidden in the shadows 

of those who speak over me. 

velvety soft syllables overtalked 

by brooding metre and deafening diction, 

delicate whispers stay confined, 

bound to the corners of my mind, 

where i am unable

 to give diction to my thoughts.

 constantly talked over, 

my words become meaningless,

my mind becomes a contraption. 

my femininity relinquishes 

as little girls who giggle 

at sunsets and the stars 

become women 

who stutter as they are 

consistently spoken over and interrupted. 

We become afterthoughts; 

left behind on the cracking sidewalks

 and turning into the last names spoken.

[chandkatukra]

[chandkatukra]

[chandkatukra]

circa 1999

[chandkatukra]

[chandkatukra]

bin roye.

[chandkatukra]

[chandkatukra]

[chandkatukra]

four kids later

January 1997

two solid blue lines 

I holding back tears

your father holds me as I cry

your grandfather feeds me mountains of apple and fresh pears

Sept 1997

he comes out with rosy cheeks and no hair

July 2000

I'm six weeks late for my period

nurses poke and probe me with needles

for a pint of A positive blood 

results come back positive for elevated hCG 

April 2001

I go in for a check-up

the doctors tell me you stopped breathing 

the next day I hold you on my chest

while the doctors stitch me up

you look at me with grey eyes and a head full of hair 

you whimper as I whimper 

March 2002 

you sit in the stairs and cry when I tell you 

you are going to be a big sister 

your brother holds you as you kick and scream

December 2002 

your father holds you up so you can see her 

tears well up in your eyes 

snot runs down your nose and into your mouth 

you cry onto his shoulder 

March 2005

we move across the globe 

I plant a seed for you and put it 

on the balcony of our little apartment 

two more solid lines

I sit in the stairs alone at three in the morning 

to eat buttered roti with almonds and milk 

December 2005

you sit on the sofa as I hand him to you

you boop his nose and he lets out a cry 

tears well up in your eyes again

he stops crying and smiles

you smile and I smile.

[chandkatukra]

[chandkatukra]

[chandkatukra]

mother of an immigrant 

I planted a seed for you.

it grew quickly

I watered the plant day and night, hours on end 

it started fading so I changed the soil

I planted another tree for you 

when the trees changed colour I brought it inside

you played with it and broke off its leaves

I said it was ok and gave it more soil

I changed the pot 

hand-painted gold rims shone in the sunlight

I got up early every morning to start the day 

with your father playing with you before leaving 

to work twelve-hour shifts making pizza 

and make ten thousand dollars 

a year to feed our family 

we move across the country 

and bring the plant with us 

there is more snow here 

you cry because it won't survive

but it does

we put it in the nook of your bedroom 

the plant starts to fade again

we water it and give it more nutrients

but nothing works

we don't plant another one

when you fly, I will give you your own seed.