All That Angrezi
It is never enough. The accolades, poems published
in English. You will create a khichdi, call it Hinglish,
but still sweat over grammar, struggle
with pronunciation. Laugh inwardly at folks
who don't know how to say pronunciation.
Who pronounce it with an ounce, a bounce
from their tongue, the one your mother used to grind
pickles in, with chili powder and salt, sendha namak.
You turned your nose up at it, till it was rechristened
Himalayan Pink Salt, then bought it from an organic
company, feeling proud that your health is found
in the mountains that fold like wrinkles
around your grandmother's eyes. When they
call you exotic, a little thrill will run
inside—it will mean you passed the test.
The Fair and Lovely creams your mother
told you to rub on your face to check all boxes
on the marital ad. Wanted: girl, over five feet five, fair,
tall. It got you more calls
from the boys. So, you hobble around in a race
you're not sure you want to win, but it feels so good
as you stand on the podium, this medal
for the best poem in English, while your Hindi
teacher looks on. Middle aged, hair always frayed,
and bitter, scattered by a mammoth creature
she does not understand. Still, she applauds
as the entire auditorium thunders,
saying well done, well done!
in a language your bones don't understand.
