We stand in the parking lot of a provincial park north of Toronto, looking to the north sky. We strain our necks and I imagine the greenish tinge, but the aurora never appears. Obnoxious laughter is in the air but I am rescued in the front seat. The lights shine on those beautiful faces, and a lip ring flashes in the dark as we chat about family and alcohol and auroras. I get a tight hug from a tall person (how I miss those) and I walk home alone and warm at 11.30 at night. Toronto is a privilege.
*
We are on the terrace and smoking up but we're just sober enough to say no, we're not going to make out, that would make things so weird. I don't remember how it goes after that, but it's an entirely different person who says later, ohmaigad you're so pretty in the light your lips are so saaaaaft. QPOC SUPREMACY! someone shouts into the night sky. We groove to desi music later, there's dappaan koothu involved, and then I am walking home drunk with anarchist drunks who make rainbows out of flowers and that's my amaanat.
*
The bhindi is loved, fried, crunched, loved, finished.
*
Her smile lights up the room and her voice rings out, her friends are my friends and my friends are her friends. I love her and love her.
*
We are in our warm kitchen, which swallows up the mornings into its many jars in its doorless cabinets. In the evening the rainbow flowers are in the centre of the table, surrounded by wine glasses and so much talking and so much giggling. They hold hands and they kiss, happy and certain and confident, and I ache for my lover, when will we cook and host dinners for our friends and cuddle in the tea-light?
*
I stand in front of my class and talk about home for an hour, how shitty it is for a dark skinned person, how shitty it is because the caste system still lives. And then 23 women blow me away with their candour, broken legs and friends with fatal cancer and family who loves them and family who is fierce and they are mixed and they don't know where they fit in, this is my culture and this is who I am and this is how I care and this is me this is me this is me. I hug the girl who cries and I walk out into the rain with my hair on end.
*
Back home, I heat up the rasam and drink it in a glass North Indian style, and share the garlic with my roommate. We chat, we drink and we go our separate ways.
I could live like this.
*
We are on the terrace and smoking up but we're just sober enough to say no, we're not going to make out, that would make things so weird. I don't remember how it goes after that, but it's an entirely different person who says later, ohmaigad you're so pretty in the light your lips are so saaaaaft. QPOC SUPREMACY! someone shouts into the night sky. We groove to desi music later, there's dappaan koothu involved, and then I am walking home drunk with anarchist drunks who make rainbows out of flowers and that's my amaanat.
*
The bhindi is loved, fried, crunched, loved, finished.
*
Her smile lights up the room and her voice rings out, her friends are my friends and my friends are her friends. I love her and love her.
*
We are in our warm kitchen, which swallows up the mornings into its many jars in its doorless cabinets. In the evening the rainbow flowers are in the centre of the table, surrounded by wine glasses and so much talking and so much giggling. They hold hands and they kiss, happy and certain and confident, and I ache for my lover, when will we cook and host dinners for our friends and cuddle in the tea-light?
*
I stand in front of my class and talk about home for an hour, how shitty it is for a dark skinned person, how shitty it is because the caste system still lives. And then 23 women blow me away with their candour, broken legs and friends with fatal cancer and family who loves them and family who is fierce and they are mixed and they don't know where they fit in, this is my culture and this is who I am and this is how I care and this is me this is me this is me. I hug the girl who cries and I walk out into the rain with my hair on end.
*
Back home, I heat up the rasam and drink it in a glass North Indian style, and share the garlic with my roommate. We chat, we drink and we go our separate ways.
I could live like this.
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