Poetry: Ashima Agarwal

My Name, My Dictum

 

The alphabet roared, unruly, untamed.

My mom scavenged and scoured the land of A to Z, 

Amongst the alphabet jungle.

Nestled in a nest, 

she found the names of my dad and my brother,

Familiar, supremely good, completely safe.

Unscrambling the scrambled, my mother found me.

A name without a face: Ashima.

My name begins with my Aayush and ends with Maneesh,

a reflection of her love for my brother and my father.

My name, my dictum.

My name pendulums between my American birth and Indian heritage.

My mom’s discovery vetted by American nurses to make sure it does not sound too Indian,

and checked with my grandma to make sure it does not sound too American. 

In the hospital room, both unknown nurses and friends who would become my second family

called my name calculatingly and deliberately.

In Hindi, my name means “endless possibilities”

And she moved to America so she could see my name to fruition.

She bombarded me with endless skies from 

baking kits, writing pads, painting easels, stethoscope sets, gavels.

She gave her dreams in the gift of a name.

Reminding me, ushering me to find the rainbows past the glass ceiling

My name, my dictum.

 

My Dad wanted a name which was vital, which could take a strong prefix.

Professor Ashima, Doctor Ashima, Judge Ashima, Mrs. Ashima

To make sure it sounded rhythmic and compelling.

He assented once he believed Ashima could carry any number of the prefixes dutifully;

he wanted a girl strong and unafraid.

He wanted a daughter taller and stronger than the Fearless Girl

standing in front of even the scariest bull.

He gave his hopes to me in the gift of a name

Reminding me, ushering me to explore my endless possibilities.

My name, my dictum.

 

For my brother, my name is me and me my name.

“A-S-H-I-M-A” simple and easy to say at show-and-tell that week.

For him, I meant a baby, a new responsibility, a person to share the toys with

No meaning, no forward, no foreword – just me, plain and simple.

My name for me to make,

My name, my dictum.

***

A boy in the middle of the war

For the greater part of my generation’s lives, one war or another plays in the background. War is often described as a derivative of hate and violence; but those who are stuck in the crossfires know that war is but a derivative of love. 

tell me it was for love and nothing but

for love is to hope

for a tomorrow, unseen, unknown, untouched

like a God, I am told of

which, or should I say who,

struggles to keep its fledgling flame from fanning 

in winds of un-love

all around.

 

it and He

smalled and stormed by the lightsaber of hate

man fighting brother, hooded by falsehood, blinded

by the fake, bloodied

unbeknownst why.

believing the unbelievable of Belief

I whittled down to being a robot swinging his sword

senselessly, aimlessly

only to protect one’s own self.

where life becomes its own preserver and nothing more

and faith is dwarfed to breath.

 

I will tell you how the war ends, or should I say, how the world ends,

it is love.

not war but love that will deliver us to our doomsday.

its arms

greedy and wanting outstretched in perpetuity,

the kings and prophets and scholars and artists, who have surmounted it all

fall to love.

into destruction.

Love ever so inconspicuously beckons jealousy

which hides hate, fear in its invisibility cloak.

 

Say war, say death, say hope, say love

“What is in a name?” 

***

 

Somewhere over the rainbow

From under the rainbow and over the bridge

I stare at my image

overcast on calm waters.

which holds under, the storms of the generations past.

a healthy child birth mourned over,

and another child, unwanted, unloved given away

just for being girls.

And here I stand under their weight on my shoulders,

I their grand-daughter.

I stare at naked thoughts that rub

the underbelly of my past

thoughts overshooting bygones wrought

with much despair

and repair.

I wish to flow, but fear to drown

I wish to fly, but fear to fall

I freeze, I fear to fail

I understood little.

My past overtook my soul

leaving bare me

overturned

under the rainbow

over the bridge

They beckon me. I must leap over that rainbow

And I will!

***

 

An ode to my umbrella

The clouds

encroach upon the sun 

hijack the blue sky,

gobble up the cheer,

scare away the birds.

But I fear not

for I am armed

with all that I need

to brighten up the sky-- 

My umbrella.

 

Two years old,

though not young

in umbrella years

it holds good shape

taut and firm

glinting against the vestigial

light of the sun.

It unfurls majestically,

dictating and forcing a 

two feet radius

free from passerby’s,

as I stake claim

on my land

against

the elements of the nature.

My umbrella,

becomes my rosy lens,

or rather my rainbow-colored glasses,

the dismal, dreary sky of rain

is blocked off to me as

the rainbow stripes engulf me,

the thin, colorful fabric of

red, orange, blue, green and purple

magnificently

create

a cozy, alluring and mystical

layer of protection around me.

My umbrella,

sieves the darkness

the clouds

through its happy colors

and colored light dances

and my face

like a disco.

My umbrella-- 

its canopy wide and scooped

embraces me perfectly.

Like my mother’s love,

teaches me to find the

bright yellow rain boots and hot pink rain jackets

even amongst the backdrop of 

gray thunderstorms and rain showers.

My window to the world--- 

like a naughty child,

I slip my hand past the umbrella 

to play with water drops

patiently trailing off its wires.

Bring it on, you clouds and breeze!

You are no match to my umbrella

Like Gandhi, like King

it stands in peace

nonviolent

but defiant and resolute.

 

It splits the world into two:

one under my umbrella

and a one outside,

like a portable home.

My umbrella

is like a small tent

wild yet cocooned;

it is like being inside and outside

at the very same time.

 

Pelting raindrops

on the rooftop

of my abode

drum up a sweet beat.

Acoustics are perfection

under my umbrella

and its handle in my hand

feels like a microphone

I can sing

my heart into

My umbrella

makes me feel

mysterious, coy and bold.

Like a Parisian elite

in a Renoir painting

The Umbrellas

walking the wet Champs de Elysse

soaked in sweetness of

romance in the air.

Other times it makes me feel

like Mary Poppins,

gliding down from sky

to make everything

and everyone better

When most think of April,

They think of rain showers and flowers.

But I

I think of the umbrellas 

hundreds of different colors, shapes, designs

on the same road. 

I think of women and men walking tall,

underneath their fashion statement.

I think of whimsical smiles,

Secrets, 

that live only underneath

My Umbrella.

***

---

Setu, August 2024