Iffah Shamim

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At school, I trace railway tracks, not the cumin 

seeds Mama grinds, not the shawl of mist veiling 

your face on maps—your borders 

 

snaking here,                             there— 

 

fluid as stirring dal: how Mama grips a ladle, 

how she stuffs my mouth with grains and greens, histories 

she heaps into Tupperware, 

so, if nothing else—though I jut out like a bone 

beneath the grit-greased wheels of your rickshaws—

I can carry you in plastic. 

 

When I lift its lid, you breathe out street-smoke, 

pickled yellow chillies. I eat without 

the clatter of forks and knives 

there. Here a lunch bell honks. I leave. 

 

Here I eye the teacher who asks 

us seventh graders where we’re from. 

He jabs his globe—once—with a pencil, 

dices air as if to encircle you, 

that overcrowded area. Your five rivers, 

the names evaporating in his mouth. Your

 

borders I flew over. 

 

Did the Ravi watch? 

How I wish you would clutch me in your fist 

as smog embraces 

the architecture there: Mughal minarets, bridal-red

blood on window-panes, clogging    

 

the Ravi. Did it watch Mama’s Mama’s Mama 

serving nashta the day gunfire swallowed 

the trains—

 

when she tore naan and dipped it in chai, 

the tremble of her wrists 

must’ve birthed earthquakes. Did she flinch 

as she trudged into your left arm, that 

amputated half-a-homeland?

 

Translation of Urdu words:

1. Mama: mother 

2. Daal: lentils

3. Rickshaw: a two-wheeled South Asian vehicle, driven by a human rider 

4. Nashta: breakfast 

5. Naan: traditional South Asian flatbread 

6. Chai: tradition South Asian tea 

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