A Tale of Round Rotis
Ever Since I was growing up
I was told just how important it was
to cook round rotis.
Perfectly shaped
soft, round rotis.
I hated them
for their supposed
‘perfectness’, in a world
full of people
far from perfect
who would judge
a woman’s worth
by her ability to make ’round rotis‘.
I hated them
for what they put
countless women through
with women slogging in the kitchen
kneading, rolling dough
making, unmaking, remaking
to escape from being judged.
All for that ever desirable
perfectly shaped round rotis.
No I don’t like them ’round’.
I like them Tedhi-Medhi. Thank you!
Far from what’s regarded
‘perfect’, I know.
But at least, this way,
they resemble our lives.
The lives of women.
Lives which are
far from perfect.
These imperfect, unsuitable rotis, then
are much more realistic, after all,
don’t you think?
Author’s note:I dedicate this poem to the memory of Aniqa, a 13-year-old girl in Pakistan, who was recently killed by her father with the aid of her brother after she failed to make a round roti. http://en.dailypakistan.com.pk/pakistan/13-year-old-girl-killed-as-she-fails-to-make-round-roti/
(First appeared in Indiana Voice Journal and then reprinted in Kyoto Journal, Japan)
Childhood games
I used to like playing games
with little toy guns until
one day, while the elders talked
downstairs, he snuck me into
his room…
My interest in toys ended
that day and with it ended
my childhood, though not
my interest in guns. That grew.
(Originally published in Misfit Magazine)
Sometimes the simplest words are the hardest to say
Does language determine thought?
Or, does thought determine language?
This debate is still not settled.
Still it’s fascinating how quickly
does our language change,
how quickly does it accommodate reality,
as soon as someone dies.
Our tongue, suddenly,
rolls out verbs in past tense
before our mind
could even form thoughts.
It’s as if our tongues have a mind of their own.
Sometimes, in the race between
language and thought,
language finds a way
to get ahead.
But not always.
It’s been 11 years since I’ve lost
my sister to blood cancer, and
yet it’s one of the shortest words in
my language, I find
impossible to use.
I guess, I refuse to use.
(Feminine, singular, past tense)
(Originally published in Wilderness House Literary Review)
***
***Prerna Bakshi is a Sociolinguist, writer, translator and activist of Indian origin, presently based in Macao. Her work has previously been published in over three dozen literary journals and magazines, most recently in Red Wedge Magazine, Yellow Chair Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, Kabul Press, Misfit Magazine, Peril magazine: Asian-Australian Arts & Culture and Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature. Her full-length poetry collection, Burnt Rotis, With Love, recently long-listed for the Erbacce-Press Poetry Award in the UK, is forthcoming from Les Éditions du Zaporogue (Denmark) later this year. She tweets at @bprerna ***
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