for the mynah bird / for the 45 trillion dollars that Britain stole from the Indian subcontinent
गृह
grandmother, great several times over,
cuts against the thin ribs of a chilli
/ call it home / this flesh is warmer.
outside, bird-shadow spells birdsong
in the middle of a sun-slicked summer /
brown, ghost body fills that small space,
once cupped by even smaller flowers.
she calls the bird madanā / joy /
and it will always sit at the roots of
a papaya tree around noon /
mimicking the small world around her.
in this peace, they mimic each other.
both their daughters learn to love the world
in the same way / it is inherited and handed over
and handed over
and handed over /
until they call
each other by
different names.
soon, a daughter will be told that animals can sense disaster before us.
for now, the birdsong stops, as if mimicking the world would mean mourning it as well /
white ghost crosses water and salts the earth with its own songs
it learns to divide and rule the commodity of brown bodies / we are told that
the birdsong is different around here / when its songs are the only
new ones.
in its final years
white ghost escapes its legacy
and sows unrest by a false hand.
ghost makes the
face of god look different /
cleaves two brothers further apart.
ghost tells us
what our god looks like
/ even when god is in the
water / even when god is in
our people / even when god
is on our tongues.
भारत
mourns the cleaved body that runs parallel to it.
a मैना whistles to whoever
is listening / fills empty space
to warn of predators.
a legacy of stolen gold and
stolen bodies forces
her eyes open
پاکستان
names her daughter
مینا / floods its earth
with new futures:
twice partitioned / new truth
will only ever teach
a quarter of its past.
here,
the raj ends the way it lived.
বাংলাদেশ
washes her blouse in
the rivermouth, now red and
open / for the sisters in a new country that does not see god in them.
a ময়না পাখি lands near
her hands / chirps a feeble prayer to a nation,
now younger than herself.
the maina / mina / moyna / mynah answers to all its calls the same,
across land and water and nation /
brown bodies converge.
born once more, an immigrant daughter looks up to off-white tiling on the ceiling and blue-white sheets. back home, she’d have been born in her grandmother’s warm house / her mother, briefly inhabiting the aperture that her childhood left behind. her mother calls her Diana, either after the princess or her friend Deeyana / she gives both reasons once in a while. here, Diana is easier to pronounce / here, brown daughters are melted into valleys. new country slacks its jaw and opens its throat / like a jackal, it smiles with all its teeth / too wide / too white. |
older now, three mynahs sit on Diana’s lap. they begin to tell their modern ghost stories, but she’s already heard them all.
After Shivanjani Lal’s Kala Pani, GHOST WATER explores how language operates as an evolving archive for culture and experiences in the same way bodies do, both pieces noting the intergenerational and parallel experiences of British colonisation in the Indian Subcontinent.
Munira Tabassum Ahmed is a 15-year-old writer and performer, based in Western Sydney. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Voiceworks, The Lifted Brow, the Sonora Review, the Australian Poetry Journal, Cordite, and elsewhere. As a performance poet, her work has been recognised by Bankstown Poetry Slam, Westside Poetry Slam, the Heavy Sleeves podcast, and the Australian Poetry Slam. She recently won the ‘Me, My Culture and NSW’ competition (2020).
for the mynah bird / for the 45 trillion dollars that Britain stole from the Indian subcontinent
गृह
grandmother, great several times over,
cuts against the thin ribs of a chilli
/ call it home / this flesh is warmer.
outside, bird-shadow spells birdsong
in the middle of a sun-slicked summer /
brown, ghost body fills that small space,
once cupped by even smaller flowers.
she calls the bird madanā / joy /
and it will always sit at the roots of
a papaya tree around noon /
mimicking the small world around her.
in this peace, they mimic each other.
both their daughters learn to love the world
in the same way / it is inherited and handed over
and handed over
and handed over /
until they call
each other by
different names.
soon, a daughter will be told that animals can sense disaster before us.
for now, the birdsong stops, as if mimicking the world would mean mourning it as well /
white ghost crosses water and salts the earth with its own songs
it learns to divide and rule the commodity of brown bodies / we are told that
the birdsong is different around here / when its songs are the only
new ones.
in its final years
white ghost escapes its legacy
and sows unrest by a false hand.
ghost makes the
face of god look different /
cleaves two brothers further apart.
ghost tells us
what our god looks like
/ even when god is in the
water / even when god is in
our people / even when god
is on our tongues.
भारत
mourns the cleaved body that runs parallel to it.
a मैना whistles to whoever
is listening / fills empty space
to warn of predators.
a legacy of stolen gold and
stolen bodies forces
her eyes open
پاکستان
names her daughter
مینا / floods its earth
with new futures:
twice partitioned / new truth
will only ever teach
a quarter of its past.
here,
the raj ends the way it lived.
বাংলাদেশ
washes her blouse in
the rivermouth, now red and
open / for the sisters in a new country that does not see god in them.
a ময়না পাখি lands near
her hands / chirps a feeble prayer to a nation,
now younger than herself.
the maina / mina / moyna / mynah answers to all its calls the same,
across land and water and nation /
brown bodies converge.
born once more, an immigrant daughter looks up to off-white tiling on the ceiling and blue-white sheets. back home, she’d have been born in her grandmother’s warm house / her mother, briefly inhabiting the aperture that her childhood left behind. her mother calls her Diana, either after the princess or her friend Deeyana / she gives both reasons once in a while. here, Diana is easier to pronounce / here, brown daughters are melted into valleys. new country slacks its jaw and opens its throat / like a jackal, it smiles with all its teeth / too wide / too white. |
older now, three mynahs sit on Diana’s lap. they begin to tell their modern ghost stories, but she’s already heard them all.
After Shivanjani Lal’s Kala Pani, GHOST WATER explores how language operates as an evolving archive for culture and experiences in the same way bodies do, both pieces noting the intergenerational and parallel experiences of British colonisation in the Indian Subcontinent.
Munira Tabassum Ahmed is a 15-year-old writer and performer, based in Western Sydney. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Voiceworks, The Lifted Brow, the Sonora Review, the Australian Poetry Journal, Cordite, and elsewhere. As a performance poet, her work has been recognised by Bankstown Poetry Slam, Westside Poetry Slam, the Heavy Sleeves podcast, and the Australian Poetry Slam. She recently won the ‘Me, My Culture and NSW’ competition (2020).
Runway Journal acknowledges the custodians of the nations our digital platform reaches. We extend this acknowledgement to all First Nations artists, writers and audiences.
Runway Journal is assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
Runway Journal receives project support from the NSW Government through Create NSW.
Runway Journal acknowledges the custodians of the nations our digital platform reaches. We extend this acknowledgement to all First Nations artists, writers and audiences.
Runway Journal is assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
Runway Journal receives project support from the NSW Government through Create NSW.