I, brown woman

The colour of burnt clay

Thought in the shade of December

The cool winds would blow

And arms as thick as heavy snow

Would melt as they circled my waist

White flakes on light milk chocolate

Nails crisp

Gnawing into crevices

Fingers touching lightly

Lethally

Leaving marks


Tomorrow these marks would be thrown in my face

I, brown woman

Must not have any history

I should hide my eyes behind imaginary veils

Look down at the floor

As you pee on my feet

Drink your drool

Wait for you to unspool

Your weapon

Disguised as life


I, brown woman

Like burnt clay

Must be moulded

Yes, hold it

Cut out the crap

Tell me that

The soul rap

You sang

Was a bloody lie

You wanted to hear me cry

Loud sobs

Like aching moans

Hurting, as you thrust

Your eyes

In my mouth

And looked inside to find

How you could silence my voice

If not, you had a choice


The memory of marble stays

Marble can do no wrong

Even a piece without embellishment

Marble pillars

Touched by hands

Leaving yellowing stains

Marble can do no wrong

Even when freckles

Mark it

Like territories colonised

When it lets others probe

You don’t groan

You can wait

For it to be done with

Marble does not darken in the sun

Cold to the touch

It won’t melt you

You don’t feel threatened

Marble is like a good human being

White

Saintly

Quoting homilies

Marble can have as many histories as it wants


You won’t hurt it

You dare not

Marble is white

Marble gives you the right

To be a slave

And feel good about it

Reflect in its glory

You will circle round it

Round and round

For years

It stands there

Touched by others

You don’t bother

You think it adds to its life

Like a sharpened knife

You won’t cut marble

Marble smirks

You don’t notice

Because it is so white

That the sun’s rays and moon’s beam

Hide whatever it has on its mind


I, brown woman

The colour of burnt clay

Walk in the sun

And you say it has stained me

I pluck the moon

And you think there is an eclipse

I was not meant for camouflage

Indented with every touch

Even by a stray passing brush

That meant nothing

My form has given me nothing

Hollow promises

Empty dreams

Muffled screams


Nothing sticks to marble

Everything stays with me

Gets suffused

Entrenched

It all isn’t my past

It isn’t even a part

Of me


I, brown woman

Have nothing to say in my defence

My hedges have no fence

No flowers are placed near me

But thorns sure pick holes

I flail my hands about

There is only one way out

Burn me some more


I, brown woman

The colour of burning clay


(Dedicated to the female victims of racism)

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Farzana Versey is a Mumbai-based columnist and author of A Journey Interrupted: Being Indian in Pakistan. She can be reached at http://farzana-versey.blogspot.com/

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