All three sketches show wrong perspectives.
Today rain leaves spots on my shirt sleeves.
I try and fail to wash away those and call my
white a virgin. I feel ashamed at that thought.
My inheritance. I call my mother thrice today,
and each time he forgets my name.
I begin to think – I should have been the daughter
she misses, and although they killed her
as a fetus, has given her a thousand names.
Today I remember what they remind me
to forget. A sector 1 lane that has lost its way
because all the houses from here to the sector N
look brutalist and the same mewls outside
my pane. I draw its noise, and only white dots
come on the clear sheets.
Sister Combs Your Hair
Our sister fights to comb your hair.
Stop being my mother. You say.
You have no sister. She reminds you.
The metal pail gathers noise. The noise
holds the shadows in its liquid.
The lghts open its maw, and the winged ants
fly into into its dark depth.
The teeth of the comb are the soft slants.
More rain comes after this rain.
You are poor again. Your mother cooks
something pale in an aluminium pot
on a coal oven. Where is my sister?
You ask. That is the title of an old song.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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