Content warning: violence, abuse.
A Collection by Aranyo Ray
1.
what am i?
I’m the anomaly in the middle of night.
It is the gray area I find most comfort in.
Neither too good, nor too bad.
Not the snowy days when humans seek warm socks,
not the sunny days they just want to be naked.
I’m the dusty evening where cigarette smoke and shameless (wo)men mix into
nothingness—unimportant and just passing by.
I’m not the mad philosopher that left town to mingle with like-minded people;
you couldn’t pinpoint me down as the blue-collar worker bowing down
to his corporate masters, and beating his submissiveness into his wife.
You could call me neither the gunshot of the one that just murdered their family, nor the
elephantine silence that follows.
I’m the middle ground lovers seek, the middle ground Rohingyas are stuck in. The question and
identity of self is lacking the momentum and fascination it should possess.
What does my identity want to explain?
My father’s blood still flows in me, whether I like it or not.
2.
hollow
In a quiet sense,
I could say we are nothing
but hollow photographs.
A slip of tongue,
the bark of the bird,
screeching of tires,
and every sound
that makes us shiver at dawn
draws out the pleasure from your tongue—
the redness of your lips,
wrapped around a single digit
as you taste the flesh of someone.
We are nothing,
but hollow photographs.
I was six and my grandpa died.
I don’t remember his face
but his rough fingers –
brown and creased
as he taught me how to paint.
When he died,
everyone talked to me like they knew him best.
3.
blood ties
My mother is religious. She wakes up every morning at 6, kisses my forehead, and then turns towards the picture of a naked deity whose skin is covered in ashes of dead bodies. She murmurs silent prayer from an ancient text, her tongue against the ceiling of her mouth, and waits for a miracle to happen. Then she cleans her face scarcely, sets the water to boil, and moves towards the unfinished-bathroom with the grace of a retired ballerina.
Today, we have guests over. “Oh,” she says as if she is going to divulge an idea that she shouldn’t. “My son, he is studying in an English medium school.” There is an obvious self-deprecating pride in her, free from the grasp of scrutiny of a thousand and one house-wives whose husbands allowed them to work outside; a certain moment of cheap contentment and saccharine in her voice drenched with half cup of poison.
My aunt hollers, unladylike as my uncle would say. She slaps her thighs a couple of times as if it is the second funniest thing she heard; the first being her marriage, in her own words. There are a lot of comments I barely understand. “He can speak in English?” she finally asks.
The rain outside hasn’t stopped and the sky keeps growing into a cavity of black mess, either swallowing the discordant cries of the flurry city or amplifying the sudden silence. It is a hard choice, but nothing less fascinating than the situation my mother finds herself in. Jhumur pishi* looks solemn, taking up as much space as she can on the single couch, pushing out the other occupants to the extreme sides. In her hands, she nurses an empty glass with a tightness that makes the rest of her heavy body slump. The others are long gone but she has barely moved since I came in.
My mother calls me over, her hands trying to smother the unruly curls over my haircut and running them over my formal clothing. It was modern, it was safe.
“Talk to your aunt.” She says to me, “Talk to her in English.” I realize then, she is still religious when she chooses to sit on a chair to address her god, eyes closed and voice a mere whisper. I once heard that Napoleon used to order his men from atop his horse, owing to his short stature.
“Hello…” I say, hovering over my words and clanking my teeth against each other to pronounce them correctly. “My name is…My name is nursery.”
“Brilliant!” pishi says, adoration in her eyes. My mother smiles, and then reasons, “Of course, he will be speaking like an English-man soon.”
*= paternal aunt in Bengali
4.
crackling
So, sometimes you know—God would ask
is that your home?
It isn’t, I say
She is quiet for sometime
then she asks
is this your home?
It isn’t, not yet
but I know she isn’t convinced
Were you happy there?
No, I wasn’t
She thinks then she laughs
Are you happy here?
I don’t think I am supposed to answer
But I do shake my head
She is thoughtful, like a cat,
where is your happiness?
As if any of it matters
I shake my head again
Why don’t you tell me, I say
you’re supposed to know
Know what?
she crackles like a hyena
then disappears through the crack
below the nightstand.
5.
a queer dream
There was a wizard in my dream.
He drew a chalk circle around himself
and called for the gods to accept him.
As the holder, so kind and dreadful,
of the land beneath his feet—
The snow that stretched on, on
over the bleak desert sand that blinded my eyes
and the water in the holes that danced with the winds, quivered when my fingers touched—
And the broken plates and glasses in your kitchen
where your sister said you were ugly.
I close my eyes.
Inside the car there is no wizard but us.
Like a prayer stricken in your too brash mouth,
tongue touching the ceiling of the cathedral,
practiced, ascertained, dull, predictable but too soon.
I hoped each and every day to stand naked against the world,
but I still bought clothes from the market down the street, waiting for the lights to turn green.
Your head is filled with dry cotton music of the century—
Wanton and lustful, like a snake's hiss,
like the apple Eve had, daring,
and I couldn't.
But I do lag on and on about space, psychics, and the camera I couldn’t buy,
and how much I hate pizza.
It’s enough; it’s not enough.
I saw the ocean drown in itself
as you slithered from the garden to sit in front of my doorstep
in your dirty underwear, for an angry fix, in the morning sunlight.
There is still blood flowing between us
even though there is no chalk circle around us.
By Aranyo Ray.
