By Sukhmani Khorana
You expected me
And of me
To know and to explain
Or perhaps to reinforce what you knew.
A fleeting impression
Gleaned from the air-waves
Of a bespectacled teenager in a slum
A teary young bride in red and gold
A river bank and ash-laden holy men
That you admired
For their colour and chaos
And singled out for their difference
From your backyard
With its eucalyptus and barbeque
That mingled to smell
Like civilisation to you.
But when I asked you
About the owners of your land
You grew pensive
You unclasped your hand from mine.
I wanted to scream
Not because of your withdrawal
But to let out my long-repressed pain
At having to perform and resist
A role that I did not ask for
A job I did not want to take
A space that trapped my being
Yet one that was patronisingly bestowed
Upon the other, the almost other
So she could inform and critique at will
On the condition that it was her culture
And hers alone.
I hoped you would see
That I was centre as well as margin
That both our skins had colours
That my civilisation lay in our inherited backyard.