after Dr. Payal Tadvi
i don’t mean the bodies swinging at ease,
toes skimming the trajectory of those other ghosts,
a lineage that is kindred but not mine to claim.
i don’t mean some intangible ailment unpredictable and tragic.
i mean the strange fruit fed and watered
by us groomed to recognise unspoken markers.
this is not about me and my heartsickness.
this is not about the way the trains keep running,
and how protests still don’t make good copy.
i mean the baby in the metro
with eyes so big they ate the world
and outlined its shape with black crayon.
i mean her open mouth which knows
nothing of how lips move to deny truth
not thrice but over and over.
i mean the way the baby’s tee-shirt says PARIS
in shiny silver sequins and how her pants
are dotted with a million reserve hearts.
mostly i mean the way she was raised high
above all our heads in the metro compartment,
her fat baby fists clenching the hand-clasps on the rail.
i mean how suddenly our exhaustion
flooded with joy at her unabashed
grasping to reach up, up, up
and how she screamed in protest at being lowered
even an inch, how she refused to take
her designated seat and settle down, be quiet
i mean how happy she was and how loud,
shrieking with laughter at laying claim to the space
and how she already knew it was hers, i mean that.