"But, where are you from?"
Try to titrate my blood
and classify my type of “exotic,”
Create a new litmus paper for me.
I am neither the thin meniscus
between water and oil,
Nor diluted “chai tea.”
I am both broken Urdu
and aspiring poet:
Rumi and Neruda.
I am cat eyes, never kohl
masala on fries, sometimes.
Sadly, always “ر ” instead of “ڑ. ”
“Day/Night”
On days when I juggle chores, I remember what
my mother once told me: "Being a woman is thankless a job."
I am still wondering when I will get paid.
This ever-quivering voice,
these dry spider webs of skin on the backs of my hands
will never beg for less than what they deserve.
This brazen gaze,
these sovereign hallows underneath my eyes
will always demand nothing more than equality.
This message to little girls,
these feminist knots in my back
will forever be unappreciated charity.
On nights when I choose to juggle derivatives and poetry —
instead of juggling chores, I remember what
my father once told me: "Apne liya ye saab kariyo." 1
I am still wondering what I am doing for me.
Will this ever-racing mind,
these parched pupils darting across lines of ink
decode textbooks and parental hints?
Will this tired body,
these graveyards of dreams between my teeth
someday serve chai and sick patients?
Will this heavy heart,
this pulse keeping time with two metronomes
somehow be all kinds of woman and me?
1 "You're doing all this for yourself."
"Rauney se kuch ni hoga" 2
I let everything play my ribcage
like a piano with an open lid.
The keys are not weighted.
That's why my heart is so
easily touched.
My mother says:
Cheeriya jesay dil hain tera. 3
This pulse flutters even
during the slightest breeze
Tears swell as an instinct.
2 Crying won't do anything
3 You have the heart of a bird
