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)

Farzana Versey is a Mumbai-based writer-columnist. Her book on Pakistan, A Journey Interrupted, HarperCollins, is to be out soon. She can be contacted at: kaaghaz.kalam@gmail.com