CITIZEN KALI

Look, it's here, within India, just 

like Jharkhand and Bihar are. 

My mother's house help pulls 

out India’s map on her phone 

to show her landlord where 

West Bengal is. The man has 

been asking her to vacate the 

house, fearing she could be an 

infiltrator from a neighbouring country. 

On my mother's altar, I look at 

a printed image of goddess Kali. 

Frayed, fragile, barely held by 

a glass frame. My grandmother

had brought it when they re-drew

the country’s map, a possession 

her mother-in-law had entrusted

her for ritual worship. 

Kali, the goddess of kaal/time, 

Kali, the harbinger of change, 

Kali, the ruthless sovereign of destruction. 

Kali, a tender mother, too, 

purveyor of the universe. 

I look at her warn-out image on 

the altar and ponder on her citizenship. 

She laughs and tells me how she morphed 

into paper, and afloat the river grandma  

carried in her tears, sneaked across the border.

When they asked for her papers, 

she simply stuck her tongue out at them. 

I look at that sharp tongue and silently 

pray for my mother’s house help to acquire 

Kali’s metamorphic powers. 

To be, like Citizen Kali, an ace grimacer.