Hum vaha seh yaha tuk aah gaya hain
Hum vaha seh yaha thuk aah gaya hain
Mugur yaha ahna she maan nahin ah gayi
She’s come: there to here.
What follows
is the paradox of the Indian woman:
“I am here but still
in the land
where I learned
how to roast grains.
I breathe but not enough
to live. This place,
this place where the dirt
is not the dirt
covering my cleanest of cloths.
This place, where everybody has come:
I
am not
here.”
Mai yaha aah gayi hu
Mugur vo mitijis seh main pahli rahi hu
vo miti yaha ki mitiseh milti nahin
“I am Neroo.
AndI search
for my essence.”
Vaha, vaha, subha subha,
mor upne pankh deti hai
Mor upne pankh deti hai
“The peacocks in this place
in this queens-in the morning-
do not lay such
wonderful feathers
as they do
in the forest of vrndavana.”
Vaha vaha, subha subha
Doop upne ankhe deti hai
Doop upne ankhe deti hai
“When the sun
opens her eyes here,
people say, laug keta hai,
the morning is just: “Hurry up, hurry up”
Vaha, vaha; subha subha
Kudha ki yaid aati hai
Kudha ki yaid aati hai
“In the morning,
in India,
I was taught
to think of God, of the temple, of each other. To be peaceful.”
Aur yaha yaha
Subha subha
Laug upne ko hi manthe hai
Upne ko hi manthe hai
“And here
they
think
on the
immediate.”
Where are the marigolds, the guntis, the gurus?
“I’m a tiny woman with
black hair and
silk saris and
moth balls and
brass cups
who
can’t find cumin seeds
for her dahl.
My home is a flat
with thick, dirty
brown carpet
and no place
to hang my
sheets in the sun.
No chance to sleep
on the roof
under a full moon.
I am a midget
in tall, tall buildings;
a lamb lost
amongst roaring lions;
corn oil but
not almond butter.”
I can give kisses like satin
Embraces like warm honey.
I wear
golden bangles,
thin as blades of grass,
dancing on my wrists
as I pat my daughter to sleep,
Telling her to dream of the moon.
But I dream of flipping oily, hot
And gritty parathas
with the bare tips of my fingers
and making yogurt, shimmering like silk.
I cannot understand
summer swims and chlorine-drenched eyes.
I have forgotten how to breathe.
Eh, eh sahib, yaar
Suno, sunno
Yaha mera ji gutha hai
Mera ji gutha hai
Eh, eh brother.
yaar, I have been deflated.
Living is incomplete in this
Queens, in
this New York.
In this land
of golden streets
and free people,
I-am short of myself.
I search for
my essence
but live the curse
of an Indian woman
who has married
America.”