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[skpoornima]

Curds

What do you call the paper-like film that forms on hot milk as it cools rapidly over your mug of Horlicks or Bournvita?

In my language we call it ಕೆನ್ನೆ

The cheek of it all, 

the rosy-cheeked, two-plaited Kannadiga girl

speaking to Rosie with the traditional thick braid of a Punjabi girl

in English, an ocean across from their respective birthplaces, miles apart

understanding that we were different from one another, 

even if others only saw that we were different from them. 

[skpoornima]

A work of art

When a tattoo begins to heal 

the work of a stranger peels off with dead skin

the flesh that remains is yours—

scarred, stained, sacred.

[skpoornima]

My grandfather’s glasses traveled

(not like my mothers,  which followed her fancies to other continents on a whim perhaps never to return)

on a strict schedule

that ran like trains on a parallel track 

marching in perfect time

like the cogs on the wheels of his watch 

on the lines of the evening newspaper

[skpoornima]

The Sunday Afternoon Oil Massage

We have a lot of rituals where I’m from,  but perhaps none like the Sunday afternoon oil massage

[following the Sunday morning cleaning* *with the voices of Late and Mukesh in the background]

a mango tree’s roots go deep into the earth 

and come out on the other side of the world

in my grandmother’s garden

bearing the same juicy fruit

that dripped from my grandfather’s lips

as he spat out the seeds

back into the soil, wet from the monsoon

the smell of home wrapped with coconut oil

into the nape of my mother’s neck 

tied into a knot of a wet cotton towel

with black tresses flowing like a fountain

[skpoornima]

gandhi was a racist

an eye for an eye

made the whole world blind

and now it can’t see the atrocity of it all.

[skpoornima]

i concoct nightmares to explain the terrors within

i cowered

in a laundry basket

from a torturer

in my mind

clenching the bars of a cage

made of plastic

my mother stirred on the bed

i froze, afraid

she would awaken

me from my nightmare

[skpoornima]

i saved my sharpest razors

for special days

and the dress in the back of my closet

with the tags still on

i saved my calories

for cheat days

and self flagellation the day after

with a serving of guilt

i saved my life

for living

and then every day was the same

[skpoornima]

the law of conservation of energy

energy cannot be created nor destroyed;

only transformed.

but what happens if the human body can only hold a finite amount of that energy?

if you give and give and give until there’s nothing left

before you can refill, transform

what happens then appa?

[skpoornima]

the ghost of my ego follows me into every door i unlock within

[skpoornima]

“It could be worse.”

Isn’t that just the worst

to hear

when every open cut on your body is screaming

in red

“Do you not see me?”

asking

“Is my trauma not enough for you?”

when the question we are really asking is

“How could it be worse?”

And therein, dear one, lies the rub.

For ignorance is the price of privilege

and you must trade it all in to learn:

It is worse.

[skpoornima]

The veil

My life is a forgotten lie

From the beginning til the day I die

I can’t bear to see her there

With wind, flowers in her hair

Love is patient, love is kind

But who is patient with brother kind

I can’t see I can’t feel

Get away her forgotten veil

Can’t you see, can’t you see

This woman walks like a lonely leaf

Can’t you see, oh cant you see

The women walk with a lonely leaf 

[skpoornima]

an ode to email culture

Hello! Hi  all, 

Hope this finds you well (considering, well *shrugs* the recent trauma of watching Black and Brown bodies killed by two epidemics). 

Per my last, circling back to loop in _. 

Thanks for (taking) your time (to read and respond to this email).

Thanks, Best, 

My white-accommodating nickname

[skpoornima]

One day somewhere

in America two thousand nine hundred and seventy seven people died and we vowed to never forget. 

And then one day somewhere in America three thousand and fifty four people died and we might never remember. 

[skpoornima]

As if

“Some days I just want to shave my head,” I joke without humor. 

The joke is that my hair is my identity,  and some days I wish I could lose it. 

As if I would then forget sitting chakla-mukla on the floor in front of my mother,  crying as she forces a comb through my tangled hair,  oils it,  and arranges it into plaits:   first two,  later - after I notice the Indian girl who wore a lehenga to school - just one. 

“It’s attached to my head you know,” I scream in angst.

The scream is the failure of a daughter to give her mother her life back.

As if she hadn’t pushed that head  out of her body into a world that told her “we don’t have any available apartments” when she walked into an empty building. 

“My hair is a mess,” I say as I stare into the mirror. 

The mess is the reality of growing up in two homes, and belonging in neither. 

As if I could then comb out my anxiety and depression in front of a mirror with a straightener burning my thick black hair as it grows thinner over the years,  until my little sister finds the strength to tell my parents something is wrong and it’s medical - not that I haven’t tried. 

“Omigod, no, I totally want your hair,” replies the girl with silky smooth strands, as if its weight, the weight of generations colonized before you, is nothing. 

As if she could hold that on her head. 

[skpoornima]

I remember the forest

I am sorry. 

I don’t apologize for young love or childish mistakes that broke two hearts, Or for that piece I took, because you took one too and now neither of us can give it back. 

I am sorry. 

I mean with sympathy for all the things that we couldn’t give one another,  Or for those that just weren’t enough,  because you gave me the color green and a wildness in my soul I didn’t know was there. 

I am sorry. 

I didn’t text back for reasons that were so small that I can’t remember them now,  But it doesn’t matter anymore, because those are the trees and I remember the forest. 

[skpoornima]

Rat race

Perhaps the worst part of [the privilege of] being a model minority is the way it tears you from your own and pits you against one another in a rat race that never ends, 

because even if when you win -  you are still a rat in their race. 

[skpoornima]

Have you ever seen a woman wear confidence? 

I want to ask her:

“What size does it come in?”

These thighs can climb mountains

but tremble at my own expectations. 

Some days I remember what this body holds. 

Other days I want to shrink down into a music box. 

You know, the kind with the little, white porcelain ballerina inside?

Spinning to the music.