Architecture meant nothing— except blanket forts in August. I didn’t know aboutBrutalist monoliths, Renaissance churches & Gothic arcs. I only knew aboutCrafting glue. I smattered it generously on my palm; waited for the wetness toDry— white to transparent; lines of love, heart, & life— too light for astrologers’Eyes— peel. When did I start melting wax— Dripping— & ripping hair fromFollicle? My brother & I, slept under one blanket but he never whisperedGoodnight. Instead, he’d hand me a flashlight & nudge & whine until myHands turned into puppets. Shadow stories played on the bedroom wall—Icebergs collided with ships; eagles swooped across the ceiling; rabbits foughtJackals— until his eyelids grew heavy; limbs curled; mouth went slack.Kaleidoscopes were, once, more than just broken bangles & 3 mirrors. I rememberLaughter ringing through the stars. Back then, I’d look up & know that the brightMoon was Artemis watching over The Little Prince on Asteroid B 612. Back then,Neverland was close at hand. When I was 12, I met Ah Meng (the SumatranOrangutan); she bestowed a prophecy unto me. One greater that those conjured fromParaphernalia of family astrologers. She said, “You’ll drink poison like Shiva &Quantify your worth in dollars.” I know money now, Ma. You, once, held out yourRough, worn-from-25-years-of-housework hands. Full of envy, you scorned at mySoft, Never-worked-a-day, Never-washed-a-single-plate, hands. Look! Look at myTough, oven-singed, detergent-dried, rock-climbing, spider-evicting hands.U.F.O.’s never did land & Fairies never did dance in the forests of the HimalayanValley, did they? But I still tricked my brother into believing it all. Together, we wereWatchmen for supernatural phenomena. I was raised by a Hindu family that celebratedX-Mas purely for the joy of myth & secrecy. If I still believe in magic, canYou blame me? Blame my Eternal Playmates, my Flawed Mother & Ah Meng from theZoo.

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