Vaishnavi Nathan

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the first step to recovery

Admit that certain people take up room in your heart, little doors set ajar. Admit the curiosity of their inhabitance, nestling in corners of your mind. Admit desire. And an absence of which you are far too aware. Admit the need to rise, to witness the rays bursting through the curtains and the sound of a boiling blue kettle. Admit nostalgia, which is the only legacy that endures. Admit denomination, unspoken differences silenced. 
 
Admit hindsight, but not for  its lessons learnt or displaced recollection.  Admit doubt. Admit despair. Admit beauty, how it casually and often passes you by.  Try, because you won’t regret failing.  Embrace, to open your wounds to another.  Reject fragility because you have crumbled for reasons. Admit surrender, how easy it is to be happy. Then leap, believing you first need to nourish your soul. 
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My Name is Vaishnavi

Fishnavi. Vashinari. Vishvani. 
Vashnav. Va..umm. 
 
My name, as if it were a wet bar soap, 
fumbles on first encounters. 
I stopped correcting them. 
 
The coterie made me believe 
that accommodating everyone is 
the easiest way to assimilation. 
 
"Oh, do you have another name?"
"Anything short?"
                           ”Yes, it’s a mouthful. V, will do.”
"Huh?"
           ”V for Vietnam?”
 
I, casually, negate myself from 
the primitive part of me - 
my name, my Indian ancestry. 
 
"Could I have a name to go with the coffee order?"                                                 
"Whom shall I say is calling?"                           
"Hi! Please introduce yourself to the team!"                                                      
 Just V. Barely V. Almost there V. 
Chronic censorship to accommodate you. 
 
"My name is Vaishnavi."
Vai - ish - ner - vee
Don’t be afraid to roll your tongue. 
 
Take your time with it. 
I am patient.

Now, say my name. 

The Waiting Room

Perhaps every day is a tiny prayer to prolong time 
I stared at my grandmother’s weathered skin in the ICU
That reeked of hand sanitizer, QV cream and Tiger balm
And I levelled my breath and grasped her frail hand 
Knowing the needles and ventilator had taken its toll 
Each breath took her a little further from me 
At the waiting room, pain-stricken faces mirrored my own 
Defeated bodies slumped in chairs,
heads lowered between hands 
Flickering lights from the vending machines
and TV on mute 
The nurse comes around and calls me in 
Three pairs of anxious eyes 
Telling me that love is watching someone die


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Tangled Hair

If she should love him, 
he promised
to find secrets in her tangled hair. 
She thought--

java chip frappuccino, 
uninvited sunflowers 
on her door step, clasped hands 
on a bench along Rundle Mall.
She thought--

$9.99 salvos sweater on the coldest 
winter day, an hour conversation
under a streetlamp after Spanish class, 
dirty playgrounds at midnight. 
She thought--

believe in magic,
try again.
So she said yes,
wore his watch and 
soon he left. 

She unravelled her hair 
and went to see the barber.

Even in the Corners

Even in the corners
the brightest star doesn’t ignite,
the forgotten memories 
are fevered. Even in the corners 
a cloud of finely covered earth 
chokes and disquiets your cry. 
Even in the corners
a thousand words are
spoken despite reticence. 
A gentle aubade roars
even in the corners. 

Grandma's House

Gently the fan spins--
it is a power cut 
in 37 Chai Chee 
and the wind has become 
nothing but a stale trace of
vibhuti and agarbatti.*
 
In the shadows, 
we held brass bells 
to find each other 
as we drifted 
through the house. 
 
Should I live blind
in a landscape of 
cimmerian shade, may 
the lights never return. 
 
Here in the void 
you have left behind, 
I still wait for the chimes 
from your temple
to find my way home. 
 
*Incense used in Hindu prayers

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