velvet kohl

One half of my hanky,
the one I tore,To tie my finger
when I cut it by accident
The other I had to give you,
for you cut your hand too
And held it close to mine,
to see if it was the same.
The colour of our blood.

You were the gardener's son.
Seventh I think.
And I, the doctor's pampered middle one.
You, a Nigger, and I was then Indian.
We,
in an African estate of corn fields,
papaya trees and yam

I didn't like you at first, for I was only five.
Plucked out from emerald pastures.
From soft wet mud.
Yanked off from the grandfather's knee,
where I felt his bristly cheek
On the back of my hand.
Warmth of his love on my heart.

Silver anklets I tied for my dance lesson,
glass bracelets with dots of the rainbow from the annual fair,
Monsoon rains that opened the heavens so we could canoe in paddy fields.
You didn't know them.
You under a cruel sun in oversized beige dunkers.
Afterwards your black became permanent Velvet Kohl.
On my Eyelashes.

You would crouch under my window for the boiled egg at half past seven
handed clandestinely down
From the dining room
For I didn't like eggs and you did
When Big Sis climbed the deceitful papaya with parents gone on another shopping spree
A Naïve midday snack. Crunchy, not too ripe, just right.
Then she got stuck.You brought out the Dunlop. A safe landing.
And We made the top of the bookshelf Appollo1 and poor Dunlop the moon.

You didn't read Enid Blyton.
But you knew the secret password in to our hearts
Then we had to Change from Terrible Three to Fantastic Four
We tried to get you read Famous Five under the water tank.
And you taught us to catch bush rats.
And eat toasted grasshoppers.
And to run. For you ran faster than the wind.

Then you who taught me to ride the old bicycle with no brakes
After you learnt it by riding it downhill till you bounced off the iron gate
Your smile when you picked yourself carried a little red on your knee and the purple on your arm.
For you always wore your Soul on your face.

And every time we got pocket money,
we'd run to the wall by the corner as I climbed over to buy bubble gum I would step on you bent as my foothold
I loved to come by your tin shed under the orange tree
And swirl the dead snakes you had caught for dinner,
while you were roasting corn over coal embers

And then we couldn't run fast enough,
I stood under the orange tree again with a cardboard box
books, tears,
my thirteen year old heart in it.
You didn't have anything to give.
You didn't know. And I think I didn't too.
But I took your black. For keeps.

But our truck sped away with our washing machine food processor and Sony TV
I think we left behind a little pepper, dhanyia, tamarind, pickled bottles of vain
And tightly wrapped up prejudices we had bought from home eight years ago.
You followed us in your cycle without brakes,
I took a snapshot of you framed in the car window.
I didn't have to.

Because no monsoon shower could wash my velvet kohl away.
From my eyelashes.
From my heart.
And my half of the handkerchief?
I have kept it. Use it for my soul.
I was Indian. Christian. Fairer. Richer. And you wiped it all away.