Sat pillion behind a man named Faiz
The name of my
“My girlfriend is Hindu,” he asserts
Narrow, hazel eyes and a kind disposition
I would say a kind heart but you never know
I nod, my eyes fixed vacantly, my hands clutched aggressively
at the Angry sea – blurs of grey and mud, screaming at me to tell
him that my mother is Hindu too.
Us both, ignorant, unabashed
about wearing our bigotry on our sleeves.
“Look at me, my blood is mixed up of those who you hate – where do I fit in?”
Cut up the city in tiny boxes
Cut up its people, cram them into the boxes
Al Hilal, Al Qareem, Al Saba
Each house smells different – years of pain, age, wisdom, heartbreak, love, loss, death, bills, taxes, payments, cum spreading itself across is walls
“Where do I fit in?”
Close your eyes and imagine yourself within the four walls – talking to somebody you love,
Envisioning last night’s orgasm as you smoke a cigarette and watch the tea boil over.
“My boyfriend’s Brahmin,” does that help?
His blood looks the same as mine. He has strong arms and a lovely smile and he holds me when I keel over, my uterus exploding into a thousand prickly stars
and I imagine we can do this within the four walls of this house.
Hazel eyes replace the jade ones of the white colony cat who’ll take its pick of roti
irrespective of your name –
Sundar, Darshan, Ajanta, Kalpana
Look at the lot of us – waiting to be boxed in.
The angry sea, a moment’s respite, from the relentless holes I try and skip over
but fall flat, face down into;
Inhale the dust.
Brush it off, begin again.
Close your eyes – can you picture yourself within these four walls?
Image credit : Anurag Banerjee