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Rishika Williams back next the poet the poems my parents come from a place that no longer exists 00:00 / 01:44 and in the ‘o’ of exodus I hear my father as a boy ‘just take your hands’ I hear him say and I had not heard that he had said that before but I know him so well he does still tell me things things that had no language before, as his memories get younger, the further Dad goes, he ages closer my Dad is always closer than ever before and my families left Sindh as the British penned a long line of a couplet their lawyer came to strip off our linens to unmake our beds to make us leave without a pot or a pen, to turn our backs on Lalibhai’s garden, leave the books we were given, our shops and our businesses, as they gave away our river, the very one that named our land: aj raat the navy separates, the fabric rips I spill some of my indigo as that part of India went am I supposed to feel better Cyril that you said ‘I nearly gave you Lahore’ the largest mass migration of human beings as animals scrambling to cross a line for survival, over the amputated shoulder of Mother India, her pallu cross-stitched wet red as her border purloined millions in massacres of threads un-woven warp of the Indus with the stench of departure lingering as Yardley’s English Lavender in torn cashmere is rape not enough: bullets still land in cargo trains my five-year old mother sleeps clutching a triple 555 cigarette tin gold coins are inedible the new scars indelible invisible ink of my genes smudged in the parting Sindoor in a hair line is to consecrate a wedding, to live in sin is to live together as if married, yet Sindh has been ashed in vermillion, dakoon at Marwar Junction bang on the carriages my Uma starts bleeding; she must change trains to a hospital fugitive paints run in ajrak, must they or must they not be rescinded, my twelve-year-old father has been left to fend for himself; he cuts logs for a torn piece of bread, to break with his siblings, an unbroken promise to his mother right up to no end Dad 00:00 / 01:44 I don’t understand what I’m writing: how can I hear the sitar's lyrics caterwauling, the tabla beats reverberating as history migrates our tanpura I hear now as violins, as I tiptoe amongst the neem, golden shower, pipal and moringa trees, honestly, what is this strange tense that we find ourselves in I sit with you to listen to ghazals of Anup Jalota I watch you in the garden, I see you talking with Dada I deal us a hand of rummy, time to play cards with Uma I reach for a mango near the rose bush, I choose you a flower I will feed you your breakfast, yes I know you’d like some seyun patata I do hold your hands Dad and rewhisper ‘we are all safe as we re-member’ VAWG-1 00:00 / 01:44 his right pinky finger extruded a mildly furled digger - it was stained dirty talon scoops – matron says do fetch and do use the mustard spoon crane lifts specimen to his nostril moon – like I had been taught to lift soup blade lengthens re-posturing cut assembly spine – replica every such movie his greed an aperitif for flair – could I have barred myself in the bathroom Lazy Suzy rotates aperient my statue pallid in prayer – I am trying hard to be my autumn tree Boolean logic tension hung die true strum or live false pluck – Mrs. Browning see she listened and I heard torrent dips hips judder he a faradic spirit kite – I want to unsee this the girl below, taxidermic standing paused – combine winning musical statues lost musical chairs go on, press your ear, do care, she asks you to eavesdrop her penetralia – exactly like a conch she drains from her heels, oceans backwash packs quicksand up behind her mid-calves slow down hear her tidal currents surfacing to deliver awash, her tribal wisdom prayer change what you can, accept what you cannot, wisdom knows the difference video what you can, photograph what you cannot, leave alone the inference Publishing credits