Did she cut off her thaali?
Cutting off her thread of secrets,
Did she slip off the metti?
Slipping away her regrets,
She did not have to,
“I want the freedom and the girl!”
With girlfriend in hand,
She never agreed to a marriage proposal.

Did she get disowned?
Father would rather have a son,
Mother would rather have a married daughter,
Did she end up without a home?
Homeless, however not a soulless being,
She carries her home with her wherever she goes,
With that her many closets.

She gained new friends,
A makeshift family,
Yet she misses her relatives,
Her dearest Amma and Appa,
She never could shut them out of her heart,
No matter how hard she tried,

Even if they coldly shamed her,
Amma and Appa are not callous,
A weighted silence,
A small reunion,
“Eppothum iruppaai nam kanmaniyaaga”*

Photo credit: Subhalakshmi

Thaali – the wedding necklace
Metti- toe rings
Amma- Mother
Appa- Father
*“You shall always be our loved one (literally, precious like an eye)” 

You say I am illegal because of my flesh,
Racism-pigmentocracy,
Separation-marginalization,
Apartheid, a race apart.
Even after the laws change,
Discrimination still exists
Cradling fear and fight of flesh-hood
Same flesh, different color.
Illegal,
So is it my flesh, my body, or my being?

You say I am illegal because of the land I stand on.
I do not belong here.
The land sits underneath the sky,
Shall we fight over clouds?
However, this is no different than the land I was born from.
Migration to illegal immigration,
I am, me, the im- in immigration,
The prefixed knot in the rope,
The prescribed not of ‘im’ and ‘il’
Illegal,
So is it the land, my body, or my being?

You say I am illegal because of love,
An endearing criminal at best,
Same heart, different passion,
Love is not a crime.
What matters is within:
not the shape of our skin
377: I went sleep in 2013 and woke up in 1860,
Illegal,
So is it my heart, my body, or my being?

You say the I of me, the me of I is- Illegal.
The law versus: Land, love, and life,
No! No being is illegal,
Neither my body, flesh, nor heart,
Not even my soul,
It is time,
To set my soul afire and let it free.

Image source: www.citypoop.com

I am hurt,
These wounds even Cupid cannot heal,
Why have you done this to my heart?

Those bows and those arrows,
Which you carry so confidently and valiantly,
The sight of bees,
Singing of parrots,
And the
Scent of flowers,
What fragrant flowers they must be,
Inflaming my every thought.

Why was I not born the
Parrot that is your vehicle?
A flower out of the five that decorate each arrow?
Or the bees that make up the string to your sugarcane bow?

Do you not see what you have done?
Freshly wounded,
And this is only the first arrow,
What am I to do?

Oh Cupid, Oh Kamadeva,
Each arrow I hear,
Is enveloped with an emotion,
Happiness, fear, anger, delirium, and peace.

I cannot describe the misery and ecstasy,
The pain and pining are so great,
I seek refuge in your heart,
And in your smile,

I shall stay here,
In hapless and hopeless
Love,
Withering away,
And awaiting
The fifth and final arrow.

This poem is part of the Orinam V-Day 2013 series called The Original L Word