I’m lost in
the belly of a Jaipur forest,
clad in white malmal, knowing ascension without
wings.
Hoards of ancestors flutter behind me like chickens,
squawking and pecking each other with insults.
Running fast, far beyond them,
my breath is constant as a bass line,
smile wide in cooling Ganga-Jamuna breeze.
Their stories are made great by hands rising in exclamation;
they spit paan with disgust at my history,
streaking the soil red and brown as Saddar streets.
I am not frightened of the chase.
We sprouted from seeds into lusty Banyan trees -
still, our lives remain suspended by secrets.
I exhale with grief at thoughts of ancient abortions
and envision a picture in the dusky sky:
Steam-filled rooms with old unmarried hands
kneading lower bellies in the silence of burning
candles; the searing fire of the womb grows hotter,
expelling an unknown relative now buried
beneath my feet, where heaven lies
Yet so many lived on with legacies growing,
coiling together like vines, shrouding every story.
We name them Jafri, Isfahani and Razawi,
and plant them in Bharat’s fertile soil
If you listen carefully to the earth
you can hear their voices
boasting in competition
while their skins flake like sandalwood bark.
My heart echoes the tolling of Mandir bells
They tell of a time Hindu and Muslim
blended like olive oil and rose water into skin
made soft as an elephant’s warm slippery tongue.
A dupatta rests lightly like reigns around my neck;
it floats against a lilac sky, endless yards snapping
and whirling in the wind like lapping waves
It drives me forward – partition’s beast of burden.
Water cannot drown this lineage
so one by one they approach me –
My father’s
father’s father is a strong village man
He speaks softly:
You write verse
I cannot even write my name
I bow my head in respect
as he slows and retreats into the crowd
My mother’s mother’s sister,
still fat and jealous,
approaches me, dancing with agility and speed
Shamma said you were with her when she died
She says you tell stories about me and my lovers
I never meant to bring shame
As she drifts back, I sigh -
her servant lovers and their children,
all running behind
My father’s brother dashes to my side,
lays an honest hand upon my shoulder
They thought I was simple
Even the blind can see injustice
His emerald eyes shimmer in the dream’s haze,
our gaze locked as he moves away
I shout my father’s name amongst
the fussing and fluttering and then -
There is silence – I almost forgot
a Shaheed never dies.
My feet are wet
In the Ganga they bury the dead.
Bodies flame into ash,
weave together in dense, bitter water
and egress into Svarga
My pace eases as ancestors dissolve
into points of light
rising into the Jaipur night sky
and I realize,
the Ganga’s cracked bed is my path,
curled under the Himalayas its sleeping body
awakened by family stories
surges from Gomukh,
comes crashing and fierce,
swells around me
and I am lifted into life.
