Trishna SenapatyTrishna Senapaty is a queer poet and anthropologist from Delhi. She was short listed for the TFA award for creative writing in 2016. She is currently working on her PhD and is based in Ithaca, New York.
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Crumbs
So much we’ve ever feltis in the kitchenbetween the cracking of egg shells against greasy surfacesand the thousand crumbs of burnt toast on your shirt
You move noisilyfrom toaster to panback to refrigeratorI stir silently, dreamilyengrossed in the battering of shapes
You speak to your selfsometimes to meI forgive that you steal my morning newspaper before inviting me in for tea
You don’t mindI’m only pretending to helpI feed the catstretched on the ledge above your headBetween us we haveno hobbies, no people, no workno secrets, no enemiesBut for the warmth of cooking fire
and chance music drifting in through the broken window in the corner, what have we?
I gave you timelessnessYou taught me the unpredictability of green chillies.
ChandiniChandini was ‘born in a Dalit family as a boy but was yearning to be a woman’. Founding member of Payana and a longstanding activist in the field of human rights and HIV health, she is an award-winning poet and her work is taught at several universities. Working in the corporate sector for a decade now, in Three Wheels United, she is currently writing her autobiography.
{{/usCountry}}ChandiniChandini was ‘born in a Dalit family as a boy but was yearning to be a woman’. Founding member of Payana and a longstanding activist in the field of human rights and HIV health, she is an award-winning poet and her work is taught at several universities. Working in the corporate sector for a decade now, in Three Wheels United, she is currently writing her autobiography.
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Ajji’s Death and Mahadevappa
When Ajji diedunable to answer those around,Appa made a big ruckus disowning his daughter who wasn’t a son,Banning me from participating in the death ceremony. My hues and cries failed to knock the door to his heart. It was all about the pride of his family lineage.
At Appa’s death ritual, when I the daughter decided to sacrifice my beautiful long hair and shave my headthe family stopped meby opening their arms of acceptance.
As Appa wished, for a family with no lineage; I became a mother, thena support to my mother.
Translated from the Kannada by Mamta Sagar
Chanchal KumarChanchal Kumar is from Jharkhand and currently lives in Delhi. His poems have previously appeared in The Sunflower Collective, Hamilton Stone Review, Welter Journal and Young Poets Network and forthcoming from Fulcrum: A Journal of Arts and Aesthetics.
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For Shirin
I try to interpret the messages from when we first metto predict where it is that we’ll find ourselves in at the beginning of
dawn.I don’t discover many conceits except that maybeyou are the clay bird-bath my old landlord once
placed at the corner of the terrace wall & forgot all about it (for pigeons to cool themselves and drink from).I guess someone created you to watch over dilapidated medieval
architecture – The queerest patron saint of K-pop and chai-points in the nooks of
Vijaynagar.Sometimes we walk till we reach the edge of our worlds and there’s nowhere left to go.Each person must either be a prison or an island. Always there exists a casus belli
the slightest hint of a century-old rain.Blue flowers have sprouted quietly from the spots where our bodies have accidentally touched.You can’t talk about poverty/poetry, you can only live it. I draw concentric circles to mark my possessionsyou point out areas of sleep apnea,never admitting to being in places other than your home.
Excerpted with permission from HarperCollins.