Eight parts of crying on a bus

Poetry / Meghana Mungikar

This is important.

The walk up to the cliffs lined with daffodils and daisies and flowers whose names I do not know—the sea is mostly blue. Ireland calls this area a protected habitat.

There is no light at the end of this tunnel.

We have the same last name. That there is a ‘we’ when I have to talk of us is almost as inflammable as low-grade polyester. Only more. There is no ‘us’. I repeat—there is no ‘us’—if I say it enough times, it will become the truth.

The sea is a whitish green from the top. Why the sea is called so many different names in different countries is something I will never understand—everybody wants a sea of their own.

Newspapers only quote last names. I am both criminal and victim. You are nowhere, and everywhere.

The best way to teach a seven-year-old girl about anatomy is by example:
                    2 tongues
                                        1 throat
                    34324 throbbing veins that are writing into memory
                              teeth can grind and suck
                                        1 hand on 1 mouth
                    weight on weight on muffled giggles, then tears.

I am going to start to pretend I don’t remember most of it—or any of it.

And this is how I will die. This is not so important after all.

Meghana Mungikar graduated in Economics earlier this year from the Lady Shri Ram College for Women, New Delhi. Her poetry is forthcoming in Vayavya.