Sari and Lipstick

1 meter

       2 meters

                3 meters

a piece left 

for the blouse 

7 metres of cloth

in the name of tradition.

masterji, please

make the blouse tight-

it’s my best friend’s wedding.

handmade art

wrapped around

my body.

the fingers

my mother taught

pleat my pallu

poised to bedazzle,

but not trip over.

they too are passed down

like the knowledge of

how much waist 

is homely

how much waist

is temptation.

tribal earrings

and silver necklaces

bought at

chandani chowk 

like a bohemian.

only sophistication

can turn tradition

exotic.

toner-

check

skin lightener-

check

concealer-

check

lipstick-

check

kajal-

check

bindi-

check

Beauty lies 

in the eyes of

the culture that raises you. 

The fan

In the dead monsoon heat
I turn up the dial to maximum.

The whirring fan
opens a vortex
sucking in
the plastic
                wedged between 
                the corners of a cupboard,
the painting
                with men sleeping
                after a hard days' work,
the loose linen
                swaying uncertainly
                from my limp arms.

With each nod to the rhythm
                  a brown paper packet of medicines
                  slowly drags itself to the edge of the table.
                  when it inevitably falls to the ground
                  it will drag itself against the floor
                  looking for a new edge to break its
                  compulsion.

Few things embrace
                   the energy of monotony
                   like The fan.

Each drop of sweat
                   moves uncomfortably
                   on my forehead
                   as The giant winged fly
                   hovers above my head.