By Anandee Ghorpade
Does it hide behind veils
Of burkhas and covered knees?
Does it fade in the chants—108,
Never too late
To bring God into the picture?
Does it pinch, or sting, or
Disappear
With every cha-ching
Into shiny shoes or extravagant do’s?
Does it peep around every corner, so dark
Children's park?
Or just an unaware moment
In a crowded metro station?
Does it come back in nightmares
Sweaty beds, ice-cold feet?
But you'd rather meet
That uncle
With smiling teeth
Than face the deafening scream
That seems to be caught
In a lump
At the back of your throat.
Silent weeps? Gritted teeth?
Clenched fists? Wrists stacked with
Shiny stones? A few broken bones?
Where do you hide your trauma?
And when will you step aside from your trauma?
Just how loud is your trauma?
For how long will you carry the weight
Of a moment
Well past its manufacture date?
How often will you relive the same story,
With every detail—so gory,
Cringing, fuming, puking
Anything to keep me from losing
MY pain,
MY wound,
MY trauma.
Maybe I have become my trauma.
Maybe I'm just a product
A collection
Of generational trauma,
Of dark skin trauma,
Of living as a female in the male gaze,
Of having different ways
In a country lost in a right-wing haze,
Of choosing a pound of joy over dollars
In a world that would much rather collect followers.
I have, alas, become merely a container
For the thing contained.