I drape Chennai like I would my unstarched cotton
Careless with it
Worn out, wrinkled, faded and soft to touch
It rests on my lungs, gentle as a feather
while I breathe in memories and breathe out sighs.
I am never a number years old here
Age is nothing but a range for me.
I could pick any number,
and it would fit me like my teal bangle.
Any year from the time I was born
to the time I left
to the times I return, yearning
I could be that number.
I pause growing when I leave
I don’t catch up when I arrive
I unpack it, tucking it away in the space that I left empty the last time.
I wear a little of my age every day
I am as old as my loved ones remember me.
Frozen in their memory,
until they see the signs
A teenaged daughter, retirement plans, my yielding body and the most telling sign,
my acceptance of what I am
I am not the one who wanted to be more,
more than what they could dream of…
I am me. I am done becoming.
By the time it hits them
By the time I become real,
Now beckons
I pack my bags once more…
I drape Bangalore like I would my wedding silk
It is new, stiff and resplendent
The overwhelming symbol of an identity change
It makes me feel armored, heavy, somewhat cocooned
and always on display.
I feel its weight when I walk around
measuring my worth in tasks and doneness.
I never feel one thing here
Emotion is nothing but a range
I could pick any two moods
and it would fit me like my teal bangles
A bit proud, mixed with a bit happy
A bit wistful, mixed with a bit annoyed
Always loved, always a bit sad
I came to this city to accomplish, to achieve
and I cannot turn the feeling off.
I feel all eyes resting upon me
Iike an unseasoned performer would.
For who am I but a different being,
who thought I could come here and be a different self
Want what life has already given
and not think about what I wanted, what I left behind.
I am me. I am done wanting.
By the time it hits me
By the time the wants consume me
Holidays beckon
I pack my bags once more…
