TRIJITA

(for elisabet velasquez, whose name i faltered with.)

I began when my Dadu named me.
A name of three syllables
That i had forgotten to pronounce
By the time i grew up,
Because i had heard so many variations--
Srijita?
Trijeeta?
Trajita?
Trijata?

Men, when they have heard my name
Would remind me that Trijata was a rakshasni.
I would correct them and say it means
The one who has won the three worlds-
Swarg, marta, patal.
I had to justify my existence to them,
I could not be a demoness.

Men who have made love to me
Have chosen to call me by different names
Because three syllables
is too much to remember
When all your blood
Is flowing to your penis.

My hindi teacher in class V
Reminded me the meaning of my name
And said, "but you havent
been able to win over any of us."--
One of my earliest memories of school.

I have no attachment to my name.
I preferred to be called tatun-
A more mundane name given to me by my parents.
A better name for friends
To shout from their car windows.
A shorter name for men to call out loud
As they come into me.

But here is an act of self defiance,
An act, of self love.
Trijita-- the one who won over herself.

DADU

The name plate on the outer wall of the house says
Dr. N. Mukherjee
B-15/74

Dr. N. Mukherjee is a grandfather and he resides in this house, I tell you
in the photographs on the walls in the drawing room, the tv room, and his bedroom
in front of whichy grandmother, M. Mukherjee
lights an incense stick everyday.

He lives in the medical books now collecting dust on table in his bedroom,
In the cotton and woollen shirts and pants in the almirah,
in the bottles of sorbitrate tablets hidden in various corners like the lining of the sofa, under mattresses, in the fridge, on the dining table
in the event of a sudden heart attack-
he suffered eight heart attacks my mother has told me.

He lives in the broken stethoscopes and other medical instruments on a shelf,
bills stuck for the last ten years, in case he ever needs them, on an iron rod,
his walking sticks, one dismantled, the other resting against the sofa in the tv room.
There are shelves in the kitchen with
empty bottles of Horlicks Lite because he had diabetes.
Tea mugs he drank from, gathering oil and grime- he loved gobhi pakoras in the evening.

In the big closet hangs his sweaters and coats from the loving, dear sisted from America
and batteries, pliars, screwdrivers with which he could fix anything in the house
and playing cards and a plethora of broken, unused things like staples and staplers and paper weights from various pharmaceutical companies on the dressing table and in the drawers.

If you sit in the verandah in the evening
you will sometimes see him walking around the house with his hands behind his back- he is scared to venture out of the house anymore.

Dr. N. Mukherjee lives in this house.

Pleasant Thoughts

 Life begins at loss. 

A word uttered is a word lost
A scream piercing through the squalid air of the still night is a moment lost.
I have everything and i have everything to lose
I have secrets to conceal and i cower from life.
The urge to die is a lot less
The urge to not live, more.
The endless, monotonous clock that life is
Threatens to stike at one and two and three
Endlessly.
There is no need to stand and stare,
That which is there shall always be
Whether or not i touch the morning flower
And sings hymns in a church choir on sundays.
Castigate me if i believe in god
But there is so much lost already.
Where am i going with this
Where is anyone?
There is nothing to be found and no one to be found
and there is no light at the end of the tunnel.
Slashing wrists is pretentious, take my word and a bandaid for it.
All is a moment left behind, lost.

For D.M., Once more.

For D. M., again.

Turn down the street lights

In their shadows, linger

Your smells

-cigarettes, weed, and rum.

Break open

The shelves in the fridge

That hold snickers bars

And Mars bars you

Gave to me and my friends.

For us millenials

It is easy to

get rid of someone-

We just block them.

What do I do with the

Touch of your lips on

Mine and the taste of

Yr tongue in my mouth

Now that you

Don't reply to my texts

And disconnect my calls.

I try not to be a creep

But what do I do with

All this longing that

I have kept away in

A corner for you. I

Cannot get

To that corner

I have lost my way.

Give me back my

Nose pin that I

Lost when yu were kissing me

And our breath

Fogged up my spectacles.

Give me back one hour

And 300 rs I spent

Travelling to you

When halfway there

You said you couldn't

See me and I asked

The autowala to take

A U-turn from the flyover

-I wish going

Back was as easy

And I

Wish I would forget you

The dark circles under yr eyes.

You are a cliche

You are a child

You are a man

You are scared.

Take back your smells and shadows and chocolates that have turned sour, your kisses and promises unmade and broken hearts.

I will find my corner again and live there until someone else comes along and gives me hope again, like you did, only to destroy it all over again.

Mornings

The mornings are bearable.

There's tea and Poonam's voice talking away and asking me what to make for breakfast and

the sound of her reminds me of fresh flowers

which we would steal as children

at the early hours of the day during Durga puja.

Poonam is small and strong and agile

and moves swiftly like the wind

And today she wiped off the tears from my face

And stops me from hitting ma and baba

in fits of anger and desperation.

There is naina walking around the house with her tiny feet

like the world is her playground and she owns the very earth she walks on

And she has everyone's attention all the time.

There is dad at the dining table reading the newspaper

And telling me not to smoke.

There is bhoot sniffing her food and refusing to eat it.

She wants what we eat, roti and chicken and break and eggs and chocolate and apples.

Then there's more tea and an attempt at writing for 20 minutes.

With ma, I have a slice of bread and butter at about 11,

after she has brushed and injected the first dose of insulin.

Then there is reading to be done but I'm bored with Chaucer and restoration comedy and I'd much rather text and surf instagram. 

In between there's more tea and cigarettes

And conversations with ma and mock fights with Poonam.

The morning ends at lunch time

And I think that mornings are quite okay.

Second Date

Sitting in front of PVR Rivoli

Waiting for you,

Tens and twenties pass by-

I keep a look out

 For yr grey and black hair

And your sling bag.

The last time that we met

(which also incidentally was the first time)

You ended up getting a tear in yr shirt.

Today you arrived in green checks.

Walking around Connaught place

Has never felt as personal and painless

As it did today

With you.

Oily chicken and bun keema

tastes better with you looking at me.

This city has corners for us

Which we will find in time.

I want to hold yr hand

And you, mine-

We end up

Talking about love movies.

7 days/ 7 lines

Monday

Farooqui messaged to say that he feels like he can say anything to me without having to think much; and that I have cute nipples.

Tuesday

I texted Neel to say that if I continue to feel this way I will go mad.

Wednesday

I had a drink with Nitin and tugged at his shirt to pull him closer to me but he said he doesn't like PDA, especially when there are too many people watching.

Thursday

I asked Deepak if I can call him without being a burden and that I often feel like I am unnecessary; he was nice enough to say that I shouldn't do that to myself.

Friday

I write things for shock value.

Saturday

If I want to get off I can just masturbate watching porn,  why do I need to sext?

Sunday

Writing is a process of purging thoughts that I cannot share with ma.