“If you write in English, you cannot know your own emotions.” ~ a poet I once metMother’s tongue. Say it slowto staunch the flow of blood between us.Distance uncoilslike a trajectory, grates like a tightrope.Can you distinguish red from beige, green from red,the translucent quality of skin, of sheen, of mercy? How do you knowwhat you feel? What language do you feel in?Rain hooves over the village, wrangling water and waste.On an ancient beach, an abalone slips off its rock. Iridescenceis validated by waves.A poet from Bolina, Punjab, drums rhymes in downtown Chicagoand in Madurai, a woman gallops past the shops, arms slashed.She screams in no language we understand.Did you know the colourblind can penetrate camouflage?Cinnamon tail of lizard flicking against bark, a slug’s curved bodyglimmering in the dark. Colours can be silk or iron,the slate of sky, the slate of lead. Colours are not touchedby fingertips. I say kanno, my darling,and my tongue sticks to the roof.No, not the roof of my mouth. The roof of the world.
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Mother Tongue is part of Walk like Monsters (Paperwall, forthcoming), a new collection by Anindita Sengupta.Illustration by Vishnu Prasad.