Sometimes I wish

Sometimes I wish I had no ambition

So that when I get back home at 8 one evening

and my mom asks me why I’m not married yet

I can tell her –

Tomorrow I will marry.

 

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t someone who likes spending time alone

so that when my dad pulls me out of solitude and

demands to know when I will marry

I can tell him

Tomorrow I will marry

 

Sometimes I wish I was already married

So when I come home at 4 in the noon

my husband sighs and says

I love you

and I can say I love you too

and when he says where is my chai

I can say —

Fuck you bro

 

Sometimes I wish I didn’t like reading and writing

because somewhere I feel

it’s costing my mom a lot

to see me alone

having no idea that this is the happiest I have been

and the happiest that I will ever be.

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One whistle for the city

I’m falling in love with cities sooner than I’ve fallen in love with people. 

What is this fascination that won’t go away?

My grinning childhood might be stuck here or is it my heavy, remorseful body wading through teasing memories of slow afternoons? 

I see my mother’s smiling face in all these cities – her body younger than mine, her energy – more reckless than your grandfather’s. 

But what do I have to do with blackened buildings and curving streets? 

What do I have to do with yawning dogs and blinking lights?

I can only say this – R.L Stevenson once wrote a poem on trains. Painted stations whistle by.

And sitting simply, long after I’ve abandoned the city, that line from the poem will come and bite my armpit.

What to do? 

In that small room with purple walls

In that small room with purple walls

You sat on the bed, giggling like water in a moving jug.

When I tried to touch you, you slapped my hands away and giggled some more.

 

In the bathroom, my water was ready –

The door locked – the lights, dim.

You banged on the door with a thousand fists and twelve fingers-

I don’t remember opening the door –

But you ran in – all thousand fists and twelve fingers and fell into the tub, into my water.

When the water jumped up and fell down — one-two-three of my eyelashes drowned in it too.

In that small room with purple walls.

useless

in my mother’s cupboard

there is the smell of naphthalene

that’s only a little stronger than

all the smells of all the houses we have lived in


my former best friend loved me very much

but sometimes she didn’t like the chappals i wore

and this she told me clearly

her long eyelashes now falling, now staying


sometimes i think you don’t like me

but that’s ok because today

i have found the courage to tell myself

that i don’t like you more


today she dropped her brand new i pad

and withdrew into a corner, shaken and dismayed

i picked it up and hugged her warmly in my mind

it’s ok, i told her — suddenly wanting to cry.