“Do you write? Do you read? Do you dream?”
She laughs, a sound of broken trinkets and obituary telegraphs. Her dimples are poems of love veiled in her mother’s silk sarees and golden bangles, swindling in ribbons and wedding presents. Her fingers have embroidered lotuses instead of nails, feet dangling above water in periwinkle days. The vein of her heart is tangled in Begum Rokeya’s dream. But she says, “Child, to dream is to barter your existence with society and from that moment, all you try to do is cheat.”
Continue reading “An Interview with my Ancestor: Prose Poetry”
Recent Comments