Will I always be able to write like this?
The tea next to me is getting cold,
the black and charred leaves
at the bottom of the cup
just as I remembered,
cementing
the dark wet foundation of my life.
The river of red-light traffic, the streetlights
shining through the winter fog,
the underpasses over my head
sewing together the fabric of my experiences.
Will I always be able to write like this?
With the faint thumping of my heart
as I climb down the stairs of the back entrance of
your house,
as we drive through galis, through parking lots
along the canals of liquor that spill from the
paper bags at our feet,
silently plagued by the fear of exposure.
Will I always be able to write like this?
With the comfort of intricate carpet designs
under my feet,
my back pressed up against the gas-lit heater
as the tray of chai is carried out,
the hum of the TV, the clank of cutlery,
the bark of a contented dog.
With the words falling out of my mouth like makhan spread
on toast risen by generations of resilience.
Will I always be able to write like this?
With the ache of laughter and the scent
of burning tobacco and chars,
the rooftops slipping beneath us
as we drive over bridges.
Brown and brick and a tangle of ladders
and clothes lines.
Will I always be able to write like this?
With the conviction of knowing where I belong,
with two languages woven together by pride and subjugation,
with the heat and the cold and the negligible in-between,
with the sound of the azaan at fajr and the taste of pakoras at iftaar,
with the walls of my home held upright like quilts built by thread work.
The chai is cold,
colder the farther I move from it.
I thought I liked the cold and now I am not so sure.
I thought I knew myself and now my pen lingers.
A thin and milky film begins to cover the top,
unfamiliar, sticky, clinging to the leaves.
Will I be able to write at all
or will I just write differently now?