Old writs

Re-claimed.

December 2009.
Karachi X-Rays,
Pakistan.

Garbed in this stiff blue surgical gown, I feel like I have been stuffed in a garish Halloween costume
which leaves me empty, bare, hollow.
Stripped of any piece of cloth, any accessory that defined me, belonged to me,
could be claimed as mine.

Blue blurs wander around like lost souls.
Apparitions of people past, people present, people that they will become.
Apparitions like clues,
memories.
I have been here before.


A blue blur among others, I want to scream at these rigid-faced nurses, these doctors that nod at me cursorily.

Bring me back my blue robe of 2 years ago, my discarded skin.
It might still have some traces of me, my faint perfume,
some preserved warmth of skin
which I can hold touch breath
reclaim as myself.

Let me inhale those rags and pour into my lungs the same fears the same happiness the same little quirky insecurities that congealed to form one broken whole.


Bring me back my discarded skin.
so that maybe I can recollect those pieces of me.
Maybe I can wrap them around my arms as shimmering bangles and drape them over my skin as golden ornaments and wear them with pride and add to my self like how sometimes clothes accessories and plastic little nothings define us as who we are and who we become.

Maybe in those blue discarded stitches of skin, I can find myself again.

Repost

Old writings.

Food Court.
Eaton Centre
Toronto,
4th August 2009.

I'm lit in the artificial.
Neon green halo's that spell 'Thai express! Thai food here!'
I am not Thai,
or English. or Canadian.

I have lived in 3 continents, 4 countries, 5 cities, known countless faces, innumerous identities or lack of, and still have no clue as to who I am, only

to who I am not.

Am I?

The modern artifact of post-colonialism?
Brown suede shoes, and black cardigan, I am a walking vestige of their Indian colony;
won and lost.

I cannot claim identity in history, having become
Western in my eastern skin.

Or eastern in my western skin?

Nothing to represent the east in the Mc Donald’s fillet in my hand, the Citizen strapped onto my wrist, the Costa Blanca on my back ,my skin

Conquered by them, 150 years ago?

Nothing, in my materiality.

How can I call this brown flesh,
exclusively mine?

-rewind-

Wrapped in a turquoise sari, single golden bangle, austere bun; each strand of taut, silken hair yelling for liberty,
like the voice of all her countrymen.

She was gathering fallen jasmines in my palms when they threw me out. House ablaze, men caged, the wail of a lonely child in the dusk,
The smell  of fire and ash and wilted, trampled jasmines.

‘You Indian Scum’

And the sounds of echoing gunshots.

 

-forward-

Me.
Feet resting on metal rims of the stool, fingers clutching my bottle of chilled Pepsi.
My head swims in the artificial,

kaleidoscopic advertisements, Gucci bags, fur coats,
the aroma of my jasmine scented Calvin Klein perfume I sprayed meticulously earlier in the day.

Am I?

Artificial?

 

Hollow?

 

Did I erase the memory of wars fought and being fought, the scent of jasmines and soil,

earth and life,

Did I get bought into the superficiality?

Every Mc Donald's, every Levi's, every global bland washes us all into

identical replicas, mimicking each other perfectly like images in a mirror-maze.

One uniform consciousness, One unconcerned existence,

One numbed whole

in the desensitizing cacophony of this fast-paced life.

One?

 

Am I

 

You? And you

Me?