I see my not-me on the news.
She who weds for her sweet sixteen
mosquito bites for breasts. My not-khaala’s
trace her hands with mehndi, a plate
of mathai bursting at her feet. My not-khalu’s
dance, pound palm to drum, stave
off monsoons. My not-abbu checks
the sheets for her blood the morning
after, brandishes the satin like a flag
his pride, singing through the town.
There’s my not-me again, the one
I could’ve been, drowned in a burka
on her way to the market, fingering
mangos through gloves, nihari
steaming for hours at the flat shared
with my not-husbands family.
My not-me’s eyes, brilliant & green
decorating the pages of western
magazines. Eyes that earn a white man
awards & showings, but eyes that stay
niqaabed in the mountains, while my not-me
rims her son’s mouth with salt to trick
his belly into not-hunger.
My not-me celebrating Diwali, lights
gathered at the base of her door.
My not-me Indian, worshipping a host
of different gods, calling all their names
my not-tongue not foreign, not accented
not strange. My not-me not worried
about Taliban, but still worried about men
My not-me on the bus divided
among the passenger’s hands
abdomen gutted, left on a road to die.
Still. Not-me. Alone. & not me.