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By Anjali Bhavan
On a hot Tuesday afternoon as I walk along the edge of the road a white car with loud music take centerstage and takes my expelled breath away in the wind of its feckless hurry: perhaps it takes it to a city I do not recognize, perhaps it takes it to a piece of rubble from the monolithic past I broke down
with my tears and ran away from, towards the arms of a future that has not yet learned to wrap its arms around me and make me feel safe, keep me from constantly picking up flight and running, running until my name has been erased into gravel, running until even the sound of my laughter is pressed into walls covered by the handprints and shouts of laughing children and wailing women, cows stranding traffic while a young boy makes sugarcane juice right at the corner of this street with no name.
On a hot Tuesday afternoon when I walk with my eyes to the ground and flitting to the front and sideways looking out for bag or mobile phone snatchers who might sell my stuff with my anger in a suburban market with an unfamiliar name that rolls off my tongue like I do off cities, I sometimes wonder if it would be possible to bury the stitches of my shame right under this ground that takes my weight like the lightest feathers of the sky, this ground that stands by silently watching me burn, crash and explode, this ground that flowers as the rock underneath all that seems to splinter and fall away from my grasp and maybe my fingers weren't meant to hold onto anything, maybe my toes were only built for flight, maybe I was supposed to uproot myself on a regular basis and plant myself in a different universe and grow rootless and upwards until even the fragrance from my flowers does not spread my name to anyone willing to listen, until all that remains of what I was before is a breeze, is the sense of a history buried beneath a tower of reluctance and dishonesty...
I only ever wanted to be forgotten.