Rain Time

These days, the only measure
of time
is between when the rain stops
and starts again. My ear is always
waiting, it seems, for the murmur
of drizzle on mango leaves outside
my window, or the incessant gunshots
of hard rain thundering on the roof.

In the garden, the roses try not to drown.
The wind rushes through the bougainvillea,
the bottlebrush, the amaltas, the mango trees.
Plants fly off our terrace. The rain hits our house
like a war, and I cannot hear my parents talk.

The days are long and empty, and I never
wear a watch. Darkness gathers in all rooms.
A limp light fills and empties the house
as and when it wants. There is no measure
and no reason to measure, time collects
at the bottom of shallow pools on the road
and makes no demands. Time is off on
summer vacation, on monsoon break.

A strange freedom lines the air.
Sometimes the sun emerges suddenly
and everything outside becomes
muddy and gold

Defiant

It is strange to know that my grandmother

is still dead

even after all this time — just because

she died then. Like it is strange to know

that I will always

be woman

just because I am one.

It is not like I can imagine it any other way.

Yet sometimes it is hard to accept that this

is unending — this skin that is mined for meaning

until I am ready to shed it and hand it over

to the next man who looks.

If there is a wish, let it be this:

if I must be woman, let me

at least

be defiant.

Let me stand on the streets 

like a man — not graceless,

but with a swagger to

shake nations.