The Brooklyn Rail

How to dream in colour (Deepu)

The hibiscus bush I’d been trying to revive. Everything was wet: a storm, ultraviolet.
Or everything was dry: barren worlds of rust and crystal. I can’t remember.
The pot was upside down. I pulled the plant from its base. At the bottom lay the beach
flower, strangled by its roots (we all finish as devastated bloom). Upon waking
I kept the dream logic. I understood my melanin as present. White fathers as ropes.
Brown mothers our entanglement.

I waited for Kali. I revived, I survived, I revive, I survive.

Survival of dermatology. Even without the luxury of snakes. My skin is the only cloak
I possess. I mistakenly wrote “clock”. Our skin the measure of time space reality.
Material that holds the stuff of Me, material that gathers the Me to be looked upon.
Which came first? The Other’s gaze or my discovery of reflection? What water
and light and colour can do. Notwithstanding these truths, there is no re-blooming
for flowers. A binary trajectory of beauty or failure. One arrow. One genus for
becoming.

I questioned tumours. I questioned language. I questioned wake logic.

Field notes:
·  I do not endorse self-destruction but how do I keep her from coming for me?

What holds you over (Gudi)

Muscle memories. Skipping behind our father. Her perched upon his shoulders. Sister.
Ladli. A botany of envy. I proved my use by other designs. My mouth always shut.
My looming hands kept moving. Fear of falling. Out of favour. Out of what I could
hold. Contrology. I could stitch days of phulkari. I served all eight sister-in-laws
tirelessly. Let them play tricks. Let them lay about the parlor as I churned
their evening butter. Waiting for my husband. Initially, he drank me. Wrapped in my
sari. Rowing boats. A naval officer. His turbans mostly pink. Mostly steering.
Westward. A bottle. A blue city. A restaurant perpetually at siege. I kept working
my hands. My sister beside me. Her husband his brother. Pouring the same violent
cup. Migration tales. Red and rugged. Our rusting apartments. Nikki and Gudi.
Two decades at the supermarket. Arriving together at the gurudwara. Ladli.
The women flocked towards her. The light she poured distorted. Too much between
us. What the brothers did to each. What we did as sisters. My hands their own sisters.
In my sixties. Stacking bread. Migrant tales of constant labour. Afraid of falling. Out
of favour. With this country. On my nightshift. A silent bakery. A sudden black.
I couldn't see. My eyes left me. I felt rows of pastries. I knew something was at risk.
My hands hadn't stopped. In the dark. They kept stacking. The stroke passed.
The lights came on. Muscle memories. By these hands. I save everything.

Field notes:
·  The kinesiology of trauma.
·  The pathology of rivalry.

When asked to dance (Basanti)

Naach Basanti Naach

He wants me to burn from both ends

Jab Tak Hai Jaan

I light from the middle and rage outwards

Jaane Jahan

Beloved, I'll dance, bring the flute

Me nachungi

decide the melody, keep my rhythm

Jaane Jahan

Sita on fire

me nachungi,

If I bleed from my feet

me nachungi,

Serpent to Charmer

me nachungi

If I split from my heels

me nachungi

If enough of me spills

me nachungi

If the floor of me folds

me nachungi

If the fold counts her parts

me nachungi

If you face all four of us

me nachungi

If our footprints repeat

me nachungi

If we call for more shards

me nachungi

If we outpace each drum

me nachungi

If the blood runs too hot

me nachungi

It will not put out the flame

me nachungi

If the shape of all flames

me nachungi

is a woman kept hungry

me nachungi

The fire yields no lesson

me nachungi

The day cools on both ends.