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Rishika Williams
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the poet
Rishika Williams started writing poetry after COVID-19 lockdowns eased in London in 2021. She writes trauma-based, long-form narrative poetry centred on gender-based violence, Partition, and activism in Sindh – both her families having left Hyderabad around Partition. She was shortlisted for the 2022/23 Malorie Blackman Scholarship, and longlisted for the UK's National Poetry Competition in 2023. Her work appears in Third Space, Between the Lines, Form Lab and Hyderabad & Beyond. Rishika performs regularly at open mics, online, and at events, including at the World Sindhi Congress’ 36th Annual Conference in 2024.
the poems
on the bald hill
I press my palm to brick
touch a familial laugh
with the metre of forgive
I press my ear to stone
listen to the river walk
I recall the game thurra
with small flecks of flint
with the rhythm of return
I recall that havaa, that wind
a tourist on the bald hill
I tell the windcatchers
my got~ra is Kashyap
with the Haridwar scrolls
I tell the land grabbers
nukhs D~umba and T~evek
I find your initials in my mehendi
Khudāwadī script on my hands
with the search for sat~a suhagan~
I find my hair is wet with oil
a red thread wraps my wrist
I count seven fruits on my lap
nine planets, a swastik, a betel nut
with the invite to the departed
I count two pieces of misree conjoined
a red line in my parting
I throw the clothes from my old life
ghari pots laden with water
with the many shapes of fire
I throw ghee and spice in the flames
the mandap is one umbrella
I walk in front for moksha
mangal sutra chains my neck
with the priest facing north
I walk east for liberty
dancing girl is there to protect me
I let you step on my foot
a dholee brought me here
with the camels and the horses
I let you step on my land
my parents wash your feet
I give salt for loyalty
exchange datar with the slope
with the tilak from the incline
I give salt for peace and unity
the grains sigh in my blood
I fast for your long-life
in search for the T~eejr^ee moon
with the light I catch in my thali
I fast to remain your wife
there are seven widows’ shrines
I look straight in the eyes of a crow
the kawa know my face
with the directions of the caw
I look straight at my front door
you take a knife to water
Indus,
there is
already
bhukha
amongst
the hari
in Bukhari
droughts
in my home
in Mehrghar
and so many
whistle blows
in Manjidak
the farmers need
your emeralds
from the ruby red
of Lal Qalander
and Guru Nanak
must ride
the Phuleli
on a fish
send the white horse
to warn of floods so
families do not sell
their daughters
and in the brackish waters
of the triangle
at your mouth
if the salinity increases
you will need
to swallow it
as the yogis’ cleanse
of Vamana Kriya
but the lobsters netted off
the costal stretch
of Clifton Beach
might get too salty for the chi-chi
my parents come
from a place that
no longer exists
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
Lalibai’s garden, leave the walks we had taken, our books
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 embroidered 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 biscuit 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,
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, peepul and moringa trees
what is this strange tense that we find ourselves in
I sit with you to listen to the 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’
Publishing credits
on the bald hill / Indus,: exclusive first publication by iamb
my parents come from a place that no longer exists:
Third Space (Renard Press)