then the drunk teen scatters a cascade of copper on cement, the old Uncle yells, eyes silver eyes in disbelief, Pick up yuh paisa, na man! no worry on this slate day youths dem speak no Hindi to know paisa means money, a taxi speeds by blaring chutney remix Kaise Bani and you remember your Aji dropping her rum at Aunty’s party to jump up and your mother’s awkward Hindi— you bit your fingers with each roti she rolled, each mantra she taught you floods your throat in front of this puja shop on 127th and Liberty front strung with plastic marigolds, a replica strung of polypropylene like you are now and not like long time when Par-Aja came from India, you are a forgery that will one day burn not on a pyre but in an incinerator, not on a riverbank, but in a crematorium, your prayers in Hindi accented in English alveolars neither devas nor prophets recognize as supplication but on Liberty Avenue in the waft of a spliff drag, and sandalwood a coolie Uncle in a kurta mouths Marley as you walk by you start to sing praise to Queens where you are Chandra’s son or so and so’s buddy ke pickni, where you wipe oil from doubles on your jeans and cuss up the car that backs into stacked crates of strawberries, to where you return after three years and Richmond Hill opens its coolie arms pulls you close and in your ear whispers dis time na long time. Copyright © 2016 Rajiv Mohabir. Used with permission of the author. |
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