These poems were commissioned by Day Eight within a project funded by DC Mayor Muriel Bowser’s Office of AAPI Affairs, directed by Regie Cabico.

first dates
By Ishanee Chanda

what is your favorite food?

(my mother’s keema and rice, spicy.
no peas.
minimal potatoes.
red like kashmiri chili.)

have you lived here all your life?

(i was never here to begin with.
my father still talks about the small,
village hospital where i was born.
the fat nurse, the quick delivery.
the kajol behind my ear to ward away
the evil eye. my mother panting
in the dim light of the early moon.)

are you close to your family?

(how can i be so close to something
yet so far away. they love me
because i am theirs, i love them
but they are someone else’s.
a country’s arms extend beyond
an ocean. my arms extend beyond
a woman, just past my mother’s tears.)

what was your favorite kind of music as a kid?

(i didn’t listen to English music
until i was in sixth grade.
my father still listens to ghazaals
when he is washing the dishes.
my mother hums lata mangeshkar
like a prayer in her sleep.)

i am not sure it’ll work out.
we don’t seem to have much in common.

(just like them,
in this country
i am alone.)

An Ode to Everything Everywhere All at Once
By Ishanee Chanda

mama, how often do you feel like evelyn?
do you wish, too, that your daughter would
come home, a little bit skinnier, holding a
young man’s hand? do you think about what
you and baba could have been without me,
without two children in a house so big you have
to clean it with your bare hands? do you wish
you were in another universe sharing hot dog
fingers with a beautiful blonde-haired woman?
do you want to be an actress sparkling on screen?
i am not joy, mama, but i try to be yours.
to respect my elders and hug my brother and
light a candle for those that we have lost.
i am not jobu but sometimes it just comes out
that way. i am not deirdre but sometimes it
just comes out that way. i am not waymond
but sometimes it comes out that way.
how many dreams have i kept you from, mama?
do we get our happy ending? in every universe,
do you want to be with me? please be with me,
mama. i will be your desert rock under every
baking sun.

Diwali
By Ishanee Chanda

in the ramayana
a lot happens, to be honest –
demons turn into golden deer,
monkeys become sitting gods,
bridges are made from brick on floating water, etc. –

but at the very end,
after all the monsters are gone,
ram, sita, and lakshman are on their way home.

ram was exiled, you see,
sent away with his brother and wife
the darling prince away from his darling kingdom –
it was for many reasons,
i won’t go into them now –

but the important thing to know
is that the people loved him.
so when he started his journey back,
after years away in a labyrinth of shrouded wood,
the people, they lit candles,
and left them on their doorsteps.

a glowing path through the maze
as pinpricks in the darkness of night,
flames flickering softly
in the trees, in the bushes,
in the steps along the roadside.

we call it diwali now
a cause for celebration
good over evil, light over darkness,
love above everything,
a family welcomed home.

/

i am on my way back from the grocery and
my arms are heavy,
macaroni in one bag,
avocados and coke starlight
stuffed into the other.
the sky is yawning blue and the
late summer heat is dripping
like saltwater onto the ground.

on the sidewalk ahead of me
there is a small light,
a lingering flicker in the shrub,
before it disappears.

a lightning bug
floating softly into the long grass.

ahead of it, another one
another
three, six more
twenty, thirty
grazing the cement
in a lopsided line
slow motion.

i follow them, slowly
all the way home
following the shrubbery
until the road leans dark.

each one
leads me
to you.

grief is love with nowhere to go
By Ishanee Chanda

when i dream, i see dadu in
white linen. he is always sitting
on the couch in his home and
he looks happy. the wrinkles are
gone from his forehead. his glasses
are perched gently on the side table.
he looks at me clearly with both eyes
working perfectly. he is always smiling.
it feels like joy. in the background,
there is humming. in the foreground,
there is humming. i reach out to touch him.
he is always holding my hand.

marital bliss
By Ishanee Chanda

quibbling with you over

dishes. the dog. who is taking him out.

it is 10pm and raining. the laundry is stacked

to the top of the hamper. the floor is littered

with crumbs and pieces of cheese the puppy has

yet to find. the recycling is piling up in the kitchen

corner. the trash stinks of fish heads and the last

vestiges of oatmilk curdling slow. this is you and me

making a home for ourselves here, together.

the greatest life i could have imagined for myself.

you are the greatest gift i have ever received.

Ishanee Chanda is a prose writer and poet from Dallas, Texas. She has been published on The Huffington Post, the Eckleberg Project, and ThoughtCatalog. Ishanee is a past winner of the Gordone Award for Creative Writing, and has participated in the Blackbox Writer’s Residency program.

Featured image in this post is: “North Indian family celebrating Diwali – Joy of victory of good over evil” by Maxtroysmith, license via creative commons, wikimedia commons.