mehndi

mehndi

twice a year

since the beginning of

(your) time

or 5000 (y)ears

the warmth of

the colour of

your skin

a shade darker

a tinge of green

watching

those patterns

emerge

not out of thin air

another person’s labour

while we talk

gossiping

another form of

resistance

against one of the many -isms

or two, and,

a cup, or two, of chai

at intervals

a busy affair

slowly

the coolness

seeping in

the mehndi’s way of

saying

take a break

from all the heat

balming

a reprieve, in those hot months

when home was somewhere else

a pungent smell

or so they say

to you,

worth inhaling

‘deep’ breathing

as it

dries,

a trail of it

following you everywhere

everywhere

like your smartphones

can’t wash

not yet

the color

red as blood

the end result

short term

you are loved

they whisper

each year

twice a year

on the hands

back and front

upto the elbows

sometimes near the collar bone

shameless

beautiful

and,

it fades, too, to

the color of blood

from a previous

cycle

not the red sea,

instead, the mountains surrounding it

but now

after so many years

this time

something is amiss

someone

why does it feel like death

smell of

torn between

to do or

not to

your 4-year old

asking, will you?

the decision

not so simple

a feeling,

the gut

tells you, mourn!

food tastes like chalk

like ants, marching

like raw rice

sleep is an illusion

dreams have taken residence

an itch to be home

more than an itch

a feeling

to be home

more than a feeling

a necessity

to be home

do or die(stay)

the ants keep marching

like tiny soldiers

itching,

now, turning into spiders

mehndi isn’t the same

as it used to

now it itches

the plant of henna

mixed with chemicals

the red color

afterwards, is,

fake

‘you are not loved anymore’

go back home

‘go back home’

told 7214 times

over the last two decades

so you take the best eraser out of

your collection

slowly erasing yourself

starting from the color

your color

not brown

not always brown

no definition

in contrast

the skin finding it difficult to breathe

mehndi may help

to hide the scars

let yourself grieve

of the home that is no more

starched clothes

colourful bangles

in preparation of

gatherings

family

smell of food

wafting through

eidi

(receiving money as children)

(giving money as adults)

(not Heidi, as auto-correct warns you to)

fresh wads of notes

smell of blood

raw, pungent (not like mehndi)

sacrifice

averting danger they say

to feed those that can’t

whatever the excuse

to be near family

the taste of water

(because there is)

even after boiling

the smell of mangoes

the no no-silent land

your location is known

you stayed

you didn’t

the mehndi, then, is

a connection

between you and me-you

and so,

to do?

is to be home

is to resist

to not erase

to throw the collection away

(of erasers)

mehndi

made of henna

(not henna)

mehndi, is,

not the plant

not the process

instead

the end product

spanning over 5000 years

of practice

definitely then

to do

to not erase