On Self-Care

I’ve been feeling like I could do with some self-care, self-love, and being taken care of. So, I wrote these poems for myself. From myself to me. In the evening, I am probably gonna buy myself a little plant for my new, cute planter. Then, I might read the fat, big book and make notes inside its margins for those who might come after me. And then, maybe ice cream. Who knows? We will see. For now, this.

The legend of a woman’s purse is handed down to me

I save the train ticket, don’t toss it out, crumpled paper,
it is now useless for travel but I keep it as a badge of mobility,
throwing above it a sanitiser which smells like a freshly-cut
clementine and violets from the inside of an English novel

maybe that’s what purses are for

to carry magic /
souvenirs of every day /
unnamed cities /

a large round coin with the inscription of an old rune ;
forgotten lies a tasbih my father gave me ; though my
only prayer now is breathing into my own lungs when
I am feeling moved by the overrun of emotions —

stray /
crystallised /
suppressed /
nudged /

brought to the brim of my eyes by a song

small, dried flowers which he gives me after every raging argument
the keys, always the keys, jangling and twisted inside the purse
despite me knowing that someone always waits for me to come home,
to come home, to come home to a pressed penny in San Francisco

Indian coins of varying shapes

so confusing /
so thoughtless/
so indifferent /

that one ignores them as a symbol
of unchecked indifference
of the hate in my country that will
reach me any time

a lip-gloss with a pink so translucent that you could form bubbles
from its tint and see the world through its rose-coloured haze
forgetting the brokenness for a little while, tasting the every-day
with a tinge of cherry infused, and think to yourself —

so what if life gets hard? 

2. The gynaecologist said that nothing could be done

My heart dropped inside my chest
because I believe that modern-day science is a miracle
and no amount of wanting to change my genes can change my genes

but I live with duality, a river-gushing force
something inside me that constantly asks the question why not?
why the can’t-be-done should not be done?

because the doctor is a woman
who has been a woman for 60 years, has treated women for 30 years
and you only know about the female body by being one

no amount of spoken word poetry about dysmenorrhea is going to
change the trajectory of medical science
but that’s a disservice to poetry, a doctored fact, a disbelief in the future

and maybe the future wants someone to believe in it
like we believe in the past, cling on to it so hard that it suffocates,
mutates, feels misunderstood when we fight on its behalf

I believed in her while witnessing the small voice in my head
which says maybe she was wrong;
how else can women do everything men can do, but bleeding?

And how can I not believe in the power of the moon?
in the withcraft of the female body?
in the cyclical seasons? in the salve of time? in healing?

3. To the random bruises on my body —

I’m sorry for not paying attention / to myself / and to you / and to the little cut on the fourth toe of the right foot which was hurt by closed, red heels I wore despite the abysmal infrastructure in my city / why, if this is my city, it is not prepared for me to walk on its streets on a beautiful, sunny day / tower above the men who stand along side me / who can now look into my ear on which I wear a little rose carved in gold / fake / despite the money I make inside cold, brick buildings / secretly convinced that I am not worthy / out of place / don’t belong / and maybe the bruises are not from physical hurt / but my pain clogged into a mass of black and blue inside me / because it had nowhere else to go / or the notes my body is making from the mental load I carry for all decision-making / or a remembrance of my grandmother’s body visible from her black saree / marks / pigmentation / blood clots / careworn skin / on which my mother would apply a balm from the left-most drawer / kept there for easy access / or maybe blemishes are from deficiency of care / the absence of people / who might look after you as one needs looking after / not always romance / not always mothering / not always G-d / not always the earth / not always the wound is about the wound.