I was born with a curious birthmark.

In the shape of a palm.

As if a divine pat on the back.

"Go!

Live and love"; said the angels.

As mama screamed and pushed for my life

Intertwined with hers;

And brought me to this beautiful planet.

 

 

As I grew up, the mark shifted to my right thigh.

Children don't need a reminder to live,

Adults do though.

I needed to see that mark, to remember my purpose.

But I mistook it for a circle.

The circle of self-centeredness: 

That's what I though it were.

So, I strived for success instead of creation.

 

 

But today I am looking at it closely.

And I see a clenched fist instead.

Protesting, crying: traumatized by violence.

So, I caress it gently.

It opens up and becomes what it always was:

An outstretched palm.

A reminder to live.

And love indiscriminately!

 

The man I am married to

Married a prostitute.

And that’s the tragedy of both of our lives.

Because he couldn’t decide

Whether to love and cherish the bride;

Or be a client to the whore

And feel perpetuality frustrated

That she wasn’t giving him his money’s worth.

Frustration is like glitter.

We live in close proximity.

Some of my skin catches those glitter and I shine.

He mistakes that for gold and comes close.

I mistake a niffler as my husband.

And everything always ends up in more glitter.

Going in this rate, we could have soon become millionaires

From mining Mica.

Except the 11-year-old child laborers inside me

Recently committed mass suicide.

Hoping to finally find some respite from abuse.

So, I find a feminist Asian dude;

And I think to myself finally! 

Furthest away from Europe, ethnically;

This one should do.

I peel and peel; but alas I find a Banana.

 

So, this time I find a feminist brown dude;

I think to myself finally! 

200 years of British Raj, this guy would surely do:

I sigh in relief.

So, I peel and peel until I find a coconut.

 

So, I find a feminist black dude;

I shout to myself finally!

And smirk- now, he can’t be white in the inside! 

A soul mate, I smile.

But I peel and peel until I find a Kinder Egg.

 

A white dude jumps out and says: 

Surprise, surprise!

I am here to cause some light cultural genocide.

Slowly colonize you until nothing remains.

All straight men are white dudes.

I love beer.

But now I am thinking; the after taste of beer is really bitter.

And it causes discomfort in stomach too.

Swirling inside like loch ness monster;

I would have said Kalboishakhi;

And went off course about sudden tropical summer evening storms.

But I didn’t.

But I have taken the responsibility to learn about your culture,

For me it’s a job.

For you it’s a hobby of sorts- not a very serious one though:

Not like Blue Jays or Raptors for sure.

But it’s a full-time job for me, I pursue by hobbies on loo breaks.

Anyway; the beer is swirling around;

Like loch ness monster and tasting bitter beer

Between each gulp for air, I think I am gonna be sick.

So I take a vow never to drink

Beer again.

 

 

Just like a white dude planning to become multicultural; someday!

 

The cloud looks like a crab and it’s moving very slowly.

I blink and it’s a dragon; no, a cat; no, a squirrel.

But now, nothing is there but blue sky.

And a rocket speeding up with white tail.

Winter fades into summer and back again

From my vantage point

In this nest of wood, steel and glass.

Is this the tickle of coolness in summer

When the AC blasts full?

Or does this feel like trickle of artificial warmth

In the dead of winter down the spine?

Is this a beautiful cloudless summer’s day

Or a freezing cold sunny winter afternoon?

Winter fades into summer in my skin.

Beneath my all season lululemon.

 

 

Summer fading into winter inside the heart.

Every possible emotion is performing in a mating ritual

And as they all mix into each other,

Only white remains.

White of sand or white of snow?

White of an occidental bride?

Or white of an oriental funeral?

It’s white all the same.

So, as winter fades into summer in your soul;

Close your eyes, let go of the illusion of color;

And fade into black.

 

 

 

These days I can’t distinguish

Between my ex,

My husband

And my abuser.

They all smell the same.

Floral trust and butterscotch hope

at first inhalation.

But with a strong middle note

Of quiet insecurity 

that smells somewhat like violence.

Base note is identical for the trinity.

Just of putrid meat:

Decay and death.

It’s difficult to remember what exactly took place.

Can a soul get destroyed by a rough touch here and a scratch there?

Not when you are 11 perhaps, and that’s my biggest fear.

When I really remember him tracing the folds of my blood-soaked cunt,

Shampooing the sparse hair there with his rough thumb;

Do I see trust and consent in my own eyes?

You will tell me 11 years is not enough to give consent

To a retired civil engineer who’s oh! so extremely civil in his demeanor

And smells of expensive perfume.

The smell that chokes me every night now that I am 30.

I say I haven’t forgiven him but truly,

I haven’t forgiven the 11-year-old girl who didn’t punch back.

Who listened to her elders obediently and let them play with her body;

As they deemed fit. Afterall they were only trying to clean the filth.

The filth that nauseated her during her first period.

So, his touch was probably an assurance, something clinical

That didn’t evoke any emotion at that point except gratitude.

But when I look back, I just want to slap that little girl, to shake her hard.

How naïve to just watch Discovery and Cartoon Network

And not talk to her friends about things that matters, about boyfriends.

And sex.

Yes, sex education wasn’t a part of the curriculum.

But it was the extracurricular activity everyone was doing anyway.

Why didn’t you; you stupid bitch? That could have saved you.

I am constantly screaming at the girl.

In truth though, I don’t know who I am,

The 11-year-old girl or the 30-year-old lady.

I don’t feel much ladylike really;

My biggest wish was to find a safe place like a little girl.

That’s what my life goal has been- to earn money cause in it lay safety.

But I don’t really have any money in my account.

Not enough to deserve safety anyway.

I had one job in my life. And I couldn’t even do it properly.

I couldn’t earn enough safety, so there’re only one thing left to do;

To give the gift of a permanent safety:

To both the girl and the woman.

You call it suicide ideation: I call it home. 

Freeloader, freeloader they shout.

The mother, her bangles clinking disapproval.

The father, with two deep stress lines on his forehead.

The teacher, nodding his huge head heavy with knowledge.

 

Freeloader, freeloader no more.

So, I paste my eyes on the textbooks

With permanent glue, soaking up everything,

Fixated with the end goal- money; that will buy me freedom.

 

Freeloader, freeloader they whisper.

In the university: my classmates with their private school education.

Disgusted at the rampant display of middle-classness

Polyester suit that smells of homelessness and sweat.

 

 

Freeloader, freeloader no more.

So, I work harder than ever, cracking exams.

To get into a B school of my worst nightmares.

A cesspool of mediocrity and uncontended conformation.

 

Freeloader, freeloader they guffaw

At their youngest classmate by a wide margin.

My eastern accent sounds so funny, and my seriousness:

Surely a sign of utter lack of humor or genuine camaraderie.

 

 

Freeloader, freeloader no more.

So, I read every textbook on conformity.

I change not only my accent but what I say:

Originality has no space when you’re trying to sell biscuit.

 

Freeloader, freeloader: they are silent:

The husband with a six-figure salary- disgusted;

When the wife doesn’t give anything. No food on the table.

No trophy to show around. Only a defeated soul mostly sleeping.

 

Freeloader, freeloader I am.

So, I sit on a warm bath full of water,

A bunch of pills in my belly and a blade between my fingers.

And I trace the veins on my wrist gently as if caressing a new flame.

I told the flute guy I will murder him

with his own flute

if he hurt his wife.

I hope someone listens;

And says the same thing to a famous husband.

Or lover, or boss, or politician, 

No matter how caring and compassionate they seem.

No one probably will though.

If at all they see the message,

They’ll probably think I am a crazy stalker.

But the truth is, I am tired of pretty faces.

I am suspicious of talent.

I am nauseous of the display of marital bliss by men.

The evil that goes on under the guise of

Prettiness, talent and bliss;

Often drives a woman to her own grave.

Literally and figuratively. 

And the world stands quietly and claps.

At the resilience of the stoic husband

In comparison with the hysterics

Of the fairer sex.