Day Twenty-one #Na/GloPoWriMo

 Day 21 Prompt: 

And here’s today’s prompt (optional, as always). In her poem, “Names and Nicknames,” Monika Kumar reminisces over various nicknames she has been given, the actual name her mother gave her, and the way both names and nicknames indicate a claim and an intimacy at once. In your poem for today, we challenge you to write your own poem in which you muse on your name and nicknames you’ve been given or, if you like, the name and nicknames for an animal, plant, or place. For example, I’ve always been amused at the fact that red trillium (a rather pretty wildflower that grows in the woods near my house) has several other common names, including the bizarre “stinking benjamin.” The plant grows very short and close to the ground, so I’ve never actually leaned over far enough to get a whiff and see how merited that sobriquet is!

For some reason, not apparent to me, this memory came to the fore after I read the prompt today. It was a busy day and I had an hour to write and post. This article does a decent job of explaining the cultural and political context of the Hijra community in India: The History of Hijras: A Glimpse Into Queerness on the Other Side of the World

Hijra (etymology: Arabic roots meaning separating from one’s kin)

 

I was five when I chanced upon a

new word— so full of respect, it trembled

in my aunt’s eyes like

terror

last seen

in a film when the villain appears on screen

 

I hadn’t touched terror yet

I didn’t know its shape

but they wore it like kajal in their eyes—

all the women, even my grandmother

terror 

gathered in their whispers like

vermillion imprisons the sky, silent first, then a storm

in the courtyard

 

the day after my uncle brought his new bride home

the Hijra came to bless the newlyweds

 

I was too little, too protected

to be allowed to witness the fuss

my imagination filled in all the cracks

and raised a fall-proof wall

where every stone chanted:

Do not trust them. Do not trust them. 

They lift their skirts.

They go naked.

Fear them for they curse.

Trade grains and sarees for their blessings

but other them most of all…

lingered long after the

courtyard was gone

like the left-over smoke-smell

of incense after sandalwood ashes

 

Last year, the Hijra came to bless my nephew

and his new bride

by now, I was deemed old enough to participate in the talks

the talks went on for over an hour

the hijra women grew louder and then one of them

did what was expected of her

she lifted her skirt

 

To save myself the burning shame,

I turned to look upon the one standing next to her—

their older, calmer guru, Ma—

an idol of stillness so deep.

a knowing shimmered and leaked from her

like nothing I have seen,

like the poet Kabir’s Akshar ki Chot

a wound made by a word,

a wounded word

a word wounded—

in a temple, she’d be worshipped

under a banyan, she’d be Buddha

in a song, Dolly Parton’s Jolene

 

She spread out her aanchal

I filled it with rice

 

A roll of dice,

in another lifetime,

she could be me, and I her