‘I learn not to carry the hurt / like a loaded gun’: These poems are diverse manifestations of home
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My Mother’s Loss
When I ask my mother what she misses the most about
Panjab, she says to me
I cry, laugh, and get angry in my maa boli.
These emotions roll off my tongue in the
language that is natural to me. Here, my feelings
must be translated. In Panjab, they are understood.
I miss being understood.
And I realise my people have been lost in translation.
My Father’s Dilemma
One foot is in Panjab
planted deep in soil
roots attached to the khet
like kanak
the other here
in a new country
scraping against
concrete roads
no wonder I keep falling down:
life won’t let me keep balance.
Maapeh
You worked the soil
of a new country
sun beating down on
broken backs and
dirt stuck in fingernails
planted seeds that cost
everything you had
and from this
I harvested my dreams.
Numb
There is no doubt about it:
It is easier to think of anything but the grief,
to drift in a constant state of numbness.
The cuts keep coming, but I no longer feel them.
I wear my scars like badges, battle-worn,
yet, truth be told,
I do not remember when they formed – or how.
The anaesthesia will fade, eventually,
but healing means confronting the pain.
And who wants to walk down the street,
only to come face to face with their mistakes?
Chekov’s Gun
In another lifetime,
I learn not to carry the hurt
like a loaded gun.
In another lifetime,
you are bulletproof.
Excerpted with permission from...