The beggar on the train sized me up as a strange kind of brute—
my eyes to the skyline as he asked
what made your hair so sleek?
Mirrored in plexiglass—silhouette warped, smirk crooked, coat
tattooed with kerosene & vomit. He faltered, puzzled,
as I pivoted—but my lips hinted rictus
while I got off at Nariman Point, where glossy towers
overpowered shoddy concrete. Yes, I
maintain a manic rictus—even
after my father collected me from the mental ward,
post-Diwali. He spoke of dadi’s disgrace, & I nodded.
I confided in him though—
picture me on the pavement, face inhaling
a puddle under a lamplight,
kerosene seeping into my wretched m
lift me. Rell me again
of my dadi & her legacy,
my confusion, so I may rise from grit, discard
my sallow shell, and breathe—
*Dadi in Hindi translates to Grandmother
Grey Sparrow Journal 