Habitat

I think I was nine

when I told Sonal, Gunjan, Devki and Shalini

on the school bus

that I didn’t understand why we wore clothes

except as a matter of seasonal cover.

The observation was casual,

the result instantaneous:

they’d have crossed themselves

if they’d known how.

Something heaved, shifted

and reconfigured,

and in minutes,

I was excluded.

I made up, of course –

eliding,

distracting, hoping

no one would see the strain

in the smile, the effort

in the blood vessel,

of trying desperately to belong

to the ranks of the immaculately attired,

those who waft into cloth

like homing pigeons,

always mindful of self and occasion.

I’ve realised since

that I’m not alone,

that there are others

who spend their lives trying

to fit into clothes without

a wrinkle, a crease, a doubt,

hoping they’ll never get caught

halfway between shedding

a Jurassic hide and looking

for a more muslin

habitat of skin,

a more limpid way of getting

to the gist of themselves.