On August 15, 1947, the Partition of India separated the nations of India and Pakistan. From this followed riots and massacres that have marred Indian/Pakistani history, a generational experience that has shaped my cultural identity today. Here are sister tales of tragedy.
i.
the land and sky
like my old saris
bitten apart by moths;
we have been torn by our
struggle,
overwritten by colonialism,
save me—
love is a luxury.
i used to think that
bollywood folk would be
ever-present.
but like my skin,
language is
bleeding.
my eyes are dappled with water,
i must be strong,
but my daughter has been lost
in the darkness
i watched as fire was the only light
in purple-gray skies,
riots where family
crumbled,
nightfall— and i can’t see anything,
the jasmine flowers have wilted
so all is gray ash,
but maybe i am too sapped of my energy
to see color at all—
save me—
but i patch my tattered clothes
and walk without love,
i hope i can at least be alive
because god,
let me at least swim in my grief.
dear daughter, living seems hopeless
but i must cry for you.
at least give me my motherhood.
ii.
“mother, i can’t breathe,”
i remember
getting mehndi done
on our bed when we
were taken out,
she held my hand but the air was
perfused with smoke,
i close my eyes eternally
and i hope it all goes away—
i heard mother scream.
red was always my favorite color,
the temple marigolds were always so delicate.
but the red that dripped down her arm
wasn’t like that.
she gripped my hand and ran away in
the swarms of people,
i know to stay quiet.
be silent. invisible. transparent.
i saw her aching face
and then it was mixed in a terrified crowd—i ran.
i saw skeletal bodies
and tired expressions in that attic.
mother told me to stay away from
men who want to lure me—
but then i saw them barge in with their spears
dried maroon adorning the metal,
i ran as pangs of hunger hit my stomach,
bodies on top of ash, i saw broken families, and i saw
her.
“mother, are you sleeping?”
“wake up!”
“please?”
i shook her body but it seemed like she
rested eternally.
அம்மா, என்னை விட்டு போகாதே (mother, don't leave me)
என்னிடம் இருப்பது நீங்கள் தான் (you're all i have)
i.
the land and sky
like my old saris
bitten apart by moths;
we have been torn by our
struggle,
overwritten by colonialism,
save me—
love is a luxury.
i used to think that
bollywood folk would be
ever-present.
but like my skin,
language is
bleeding.
my eyes are dappled with water,
i must be strong,
but my daughter has been lost
in the darkness
i watched as fire was the only light
in purple-gray skies,
riots where family
crumbled,
nightfall— and i can’t see anything,
the jasmine flowers have wilted
so all is gray ash,
but maybe i am too sapped of my energy
to see color at all—
save me—
but i patch my tattered clothes
and walk without love,
i hope i can at least be alive
because god,
let me at least swim in my grief.
dear daughter, living seems hopeless
but i must cry for you.
at least give me my motherhood.
ii.
“mother, i can’t breathe,”
i remember
getting mehndi done
on our bed when we
were taken out,
she held my hand but the air was
perfused with smoke,
i close my eyes eternally
and i hope it all goes away—
i heard mother scream.
red was always my favorite color,
the temple marigolds were always so delicate.
but the red that dripped down her arm
wasn’t like that.
she gripped my hand and ran away in
the swarms of people,
i know to stay quiet.
be silent. invisible. transparent.
i saw her aching face
and then it was mixed in a terrified crowd—i ran.
i saw skeletal bodies
and tired expressions in that attic.
mother told me to stay away from
men who want to lure me—
but then i saw them barge in with their spears
dried maroon adorning the metal,
i ran as pangs of hunger hit my stomach,
bodies on top of ash, i saw broken families, and i saw
her.
“mother, are you sleeping?”
“wake up!”
“please?”
i shook her body but it seemed like she
rested eternally.
அம்மா, என்னை விட்டு போகாதே (mother, don't leave me)
என்னிடம் இருப்பது நீங்கள் தான் (you're all i have)
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.