(Written on Ash Wednesday two years ago. What began as a lament for a girl begging on the streets of Mumbai and became also a lament for the little girl within me.)
Little girl, who
peers through smears of soot
which blur and run
in the rain,
this lament is for
you.
Life once
fluttered around your shoulders
shimmered as it
nested in your hair
chirping and
humming as the air filled with light.
It lies broken now
beneath the earth.
I too, have been
marked with ashes
the dust of
ancient hosannas
and so we meet
death in each other's eyes.
Beneath the shroud
of water and cloud
the throaty wail
begins.
This lament is for
you.
For you behind the
windowpane
with prickling
skin and ragged palms
as raindrops melt
the waxen glass
you who have no
name.
Behind this jail of
ashen skin
we strain to hear
the rooftops wail
in the dusky
moments before breath
we wait for the
creak of footsteps on the stair
for the rustle and
murmur from corners of the room
for the ancient
words that light the air
“Talitha
Koum! Little girl, get up!
You no longer
dwell in the cold, dark places
the death-fumed
spaces
You are named
in to life!
Exhale the
stale air of the tomb,
you are fresh
and new! Get up!”
But today the
stench of decay
hangs in the folds
of cloth
as my palm meets
yours across the glass
we are blue-lipped
with death
we have not yet
learned to breathe
Let the Naming
begin.
