My Birth to Death is a four-week training programme
When the doctors cut open my mother's womb -
human resources hired me; for a promising resume.
In the first week, they trained me in
the language of the government - feeding me Pepsi,
and Starbucks when I was hungry.
In the second week I learned how to attend seminars -
how to steal VIP cards from the trash, and
raise questions about rising GDP and wealth.
In the third week, they conducted a viva,
passing meant a permanent job, I really wanted to pass.
They asked me about the trials of being a man and
I said it was the dilemma of not wanting to be one -
and they thanked me for my service.
I think my training period was over after the fourth week,
when they handed me a certificate of participation,
and shook my hand,
and an apology -
signed sincerely with a blue stamp.
Hereditary
On some days, I sit with the expired medicines of my grandmother
that I had fished out of the bin years ago and wonder about how
her bronchitis was the only physical affection she had left for me.
On some black-and-white days, I get reminded of my hair, my
poor liver functions, and the morning my father coloured his hair
for the first time at thirty.
On the days I miss my grandfather, I brush my teeth freakishly
after every meal, the leftover crumbs that stuck to his corroded tooth
never really left him, nor me.
On those days when I read letters and numbers through a glass plate,
regretting the long hours of television as a child, my mother
calls up my aunt and jokes about the curse of genetics, as if I take on my aunt more than my mother, as if,
I am a compiled DVD of their heritage gone wrong.
On every family occasion, I thread out a map of possibilities, by
reviewing each member as a potential suspect of my fallacies only
to realise by their conversations and equated banters, by their
back pains, sore knees and migraines, that
I am an unhealthy amalgamation of my ancestors.
Dents
I have mastered the art of shared loneliness, the
silence after a smile. Back home, I used to search for
dents in my bed, dents in my teeth, dents under my eyes.
When she told me to smile, I grew conscious of
not showing my smile or crinkling my eyes too much.
But she had laughed with her charcoal teeth and
held my dented hand with hers. I still do not know why
the dark undertones of her skin decided to spread around,
I forgot the exact time I held hands with my shadow.
About the Poet:
Sanchari Dasgupta is a media student in Mumbai. She likes to draw people and objects while drinking tea. Her hometown is in Kolkata. She spent her Bachelors and Masters idling on the ledge of Jadavpur University's English department.