Identity

Each time a stranger reaches out to me, to inch us closer with familiarity, I find myself standing paralyzed, unable to define my identity.

What is it that they seek, The places I belong, the languages I speak, Do they try and search themselves in me? To find a shared identity.

Girl, they ask? Yes, I do feel like one without doubt. Though I am glad you ask instead of defining my box.

English? Yes! It sounds like a reluctant No. I worry that someday everyone will know. That I have no first language. No giveaways, No accents.

Name? Trupthi, Content, yes. And no, certainly that isn’t me. I lost her in the 90's. When being content went out of vogue. In an unending attempt for more.

Bombay, they ask hopefully? I nod but I don’t agree. I only know her after she changed her name, our pasts are still unclaimed.

South Indian? Wrong. Unless my lineage lends me the liberty to belong. In a culture, that is only a part of my parents lives. I am perfectly uprooted otherwise.

Fat? Yes, I am that. I knew because of the names kids called when I was small. And today, grown ups tell me repeatedly in ads and shopping malls.

Poet? I say no for the fear that I will be asked to recite a poem. And then they will change their mind since my poetry doesn’t rhyme.

Hence, a conflict ensues in me, for the definition of a reconciled identity, I know the reconciliation may not happen, As my myths and realities continue to battle.

But I accept this journey as a necessary charade, because if history has any tale to narrate,

It is that after all conflict is progress.