It is hard to find me in my dress,
it is as clever as my mind wants it to be.
The one extra bulge in the belly,
with one more candle on the cake,
is smartly hidden under the jacket, a loose top,
or the very convenient way I drape my sari,
or pallu over it.
It can even make my arms look slimmer..
and your perception of me would be the one laid by
the pawn of my clever mind :my dress.
It is hard to find me in my spoken words;
for they are tricksters: swirling, enlarging, shrinking, shining.
They come from a backstage and are lost into one…dark backstage.
It is hard to find me in the crowd. Sometimes I look like
everybody else, and on too tired to be,
I crouch and hide to feel my own skin and face.
Find me in the naked eyes; who refuse to dress up.
They exist in their revelation and in their hiding too.
Find me in the pauses between my words and sentences,
they are the spaces of the truth carried over from solitude;
quickly dressing up if not caught there.
Find me in my pages, well carved, messed up, abused.
Find me in the blunt pencil.
Find me in what you just thought but did not say.