dear salman rushdie and elizabeth bishop,

what a breadth of work is included here! the narratives are tricky, heavy, humorous. so many voices speaking from their corners of existence—an “osteo-warped” young man in a wheelchair (“Trying to Grow”), a calculating woman who marries and drives her family into the economic class above herself (“Shakti”), a male indian doctor’s terrifying visit to Nashawy, Egypt, where he is derided for not performing clitorectomies in his homeland (“Nashawy”). there is a thrilling global shape to this anthology despite its seeming confinement to “indian” writers and you manage to make this text varied, multifaceted, and beautifully sequenced. i read and reread “In the Mountains” because of its courageous representation of a woman unsocialized to her upper-crust family’s consumptive, social ways. the mother idolizes the daughter who defies all that is recognizable about being an indian woman, an unexpected and real turn to the narrative. the queer male desire visited in “Trying to Grow” is a risky intervention into two marginalized spaces—the queer and differently abled worlds. many of these stories inhabit multiple rooms of class, gender, migrancy. the thread unifying the works presented here is the tenacity of the characters and the grounded storytelling employed by the authors. sara suleri’s “Meatless Days” shows up here as well, proving the most-anthologized ‘south asian’ short story i’ve seen, as i’ve read it already in Our Feet Walk the Sky: Women of the South Asian Diaspora. didn’t you read that anthology? maybe you wanted to bring it to a wider audience — a men’s audience. provocative, expansive, confident. a successful collection.

thank you,
Tahminah Zaman

© 2010 tahminah zaman

a sculpture in sand
that lasts until
swept away by tide
or wind

in an instant
re written

© 2009 t zaman

if i speak
my name
if i leave
my trace

betrayal
of silence
loyalty to the familiar

i am released
from my roots
and there is nothing
but sky

i went somewhere with you, i don’t remember where. i can’t sleep tonight and i’ve drunk too much wine to read any stories out of a book. i don’t want to write this and i won’t be able to sleep until i do.

unravel the vision, i suppose.

the roots that ran from my belly to the center of the earth held me, rocked me, and released me to follow my destiny. they were like the flowers in frida’s “my nurse and me,” like the vines of flowers or the ducts for milk that wait in each breast for the chance to feed a child. and then i was rising, released from my roots into the sky, the same sky that i was afraid to look at when i was little for fear that i could fall upside down into that unpredictable eternity.

all this traveling through air and cloud vapor brings me to you. you are there, you are whole, you are brown and beautiful. i see a home in the hills of berkeley, i see trees and love and a woman in a warm wooden room with a computer. there are long layers of black hair speckled with gray, there is that symbol of strength i conjure and project onto myself in all my dreams. after four years of short hair, have i ever dreamt myself as i look?

i ask you if you are still afraid of money, terrified of love, and you embrace me. there are no words to wash away my questions, yet they are answered. i can feel the swell of wealth everywhere, i look at the wise eyes absorbing the fear in my questions without a change in expression, a look of love and complete acceptance of all we have seen, all we have done. even the shame is wiped away.

i watch you closely as you break away from me to be surrounded by three daughters, your long hair clinging to their collars as they gather around you like a halo. i look for traces of sorrow, of struggle, of discontent in your face and cannot find them. and then there is m, our lover, who joins the embrace. everything i ever wanted is in this room. after watching you a long time as you, my mother, my lover, my guide, my future self, my essence show me the truth of my destiny, i turn to leave knowing i will return. knowing the next stage of my life will bring me closer to that moment of love we witnessed together.

© t zaman 2009

you, my love, are trapped in mumbai today, thousands of miles away from the fake turkey meat and pear cranberry sauce in my mouth. you are there for a wedding whose four-day-long grandeur has been shaved down to just a small ceremony and reception at the end of this long weekend. thanksgiving day for you meant seeing the streets, schools, and city buildings shut themselves away beneath a blanket of shock. and, after all, weren’t you supposed to go to that fancy hotel that night, the night they started taking hostages and killing people for being born in the wrong countries? your family was to go there to celebrate someone’s birthday. something got in your way, and you didn’t go.

i watch the prayers written in arabic on the pages of my holy Qur’an, i imagine they are spelling your name, your family name, the gujurati syllables of your signature. the lucky name your parents gave you. i know you are there, in your bed, somewhere in mumbai away from the rooms where people are hiding and lying about their origins, trying to save their own lives. where lakes of blood and purses litter the lobbies of hotels and the hallways of hospitals, strewn with the bodies of people murdered by men who called themselves muslim. they knew about this yankee holiday, those men who chose to punish those they decided were responsible for what’s wrong in the world.

all this outside your door and yet i know you are safe, in bed, your hands searching for me, invoking me across a thousand national borders, across the ten hours of dragged time between us. feeling my body cover yours, breathing my flesh around you. i know you are listening, looking for an opening into peace, into hope, gripping yourself against all your memories of me, wanting me. your desire brings me into your room. you touch me, finding my face against yours, breasts pressing into you, my hands reaching for the parts of you that miss me most.

“on monday,” you say, “only ten more days.” until you are home. until the space between us dissolves into one long memory of separation, recalling the miles of telephone wire that bring your voice to me, these nights alone in a bed that’s grown too big without you. the single line that connects yesterday to today is a gash through which you will slip back to me. this leaving and returning a rhythm of loving, the illusion of separation to be disproven one more time.

© 2008 tahminah zaman

write something
that shows everyone
how i am

loyal and
loving

trusty and
unpredictable
on the regular

write me a poem about
how you desire me:

i want you and nothing else
need you like water

tell me
write me
how you yearn for me

how your body wants me
the same as your thoughts;

how life would be less lovely
without me
without my love;

that i satisfy you
make you crazy with love
and loyal

© 2008 tahminah zaman

2. courageous, culturally rooted, earthy, secure, genuinely self-assured

3. excellent sense of self // runs own life // got the self-care thing down

4. present, supportive, sweet, and nurturing

5. super and spontaneously communicative and conscientious

6. verbal, vocal, and gifted writer

7. pragmatic // real // concrete

8. socially conscious entrepreneur

9. non-judgmental // drama-free // accepts an amazing woman as she is

10. unconventional // unique // extraordinary

11. cracks me up with his smart, naughty jokes and hip hop sensibility

12. committed to me and open to outside exploration

13. exciting, energetic and driven

14. tantric artist who can learn with me

15. deep and mellow

16. emotional and intellectual

17. at peace with all his facets

18. adventurous yet domestic

19. successful, accomplished and modest

20. artsy and creative

21. social, gentlemanly, affectionate, respectful

22. generous with love, time, energy

23. balanced relationship with family

24. has friends i’d choose

25. great cook

26. open to having a family in the Bay

27. attractive, active, in shape, & strong

28. has gotten self to therapy of some kind at some point (everybody hurts)

29. sagittarius, pisces, aquarius, taurus, or cancer

30. sexy & masculine

31. thick hair on head

For the first time this year Bengaluru and Delhi are joining Kolkata in marching to celebrate Pride in India. This is a chance for the lesbian, gay, bisexual, hijra, kothi, hijra, transsexual, transgender, doubledecker and intersex communities to celebrate being part of this country and also to protest how the government of this country continues to treat us as criminals. In doing so we will be connecting with the origins of Pride Marches. Around the world these take place towards the end of June and they are treated as colourful occasions for the LGBT community to celebrate.

DATE : Sunday, June 29th, 2008

TIME: 2 pm to 5 pm

VENUE: National College Basavangudi to Town Hall

———–

Background:

Pride as an event has a serious origin. It dates back to the early morning of 29th June 1969 when police in New York city raided a gay bar called the Stonewall Inn. They started questioning and humiliating the people in the bar, and even arrested some of them.This sort of harassment had been going on for years, but for the first time that night the people in the bar fought back. Lead by the drag queens (men dressed in women’s clothes) the people at Stonewall refused to get bullied in silence. The police responded by beating people savagely, but the crowd refused to go away. More people from the LGBT community came to their support and it became a riot that lasted five days. For the first time the police learned that LGBT people could stand up for their rights.

The Stonewall riot became a symbol of LGBT standing up for their basic human rights. The next year, in June 1970, a march was held in New York, San Francisco and Los Angeles to commemorate what happened that night. Over the years, as LGBT people won recognition of their basic human rights the Pride marches became more about celebration. In many countries today Pride is a way of showing how LGBT people live openly and happily in society.

In India today we are closer to where Pride was when it started in 1970. LGBT people face a lot of harassment from the police. Lesbians are subject to violence and even forced to commit suicide by their families. Gay men are blackmailed by organised rackets that involve members of the police. Bisexuals are denied the chance to express same sex love and forced into opposite sex marriages. Transgenders are routinely arrested and raped by the police. Same sex couples who have lived together for years cannot buy a house together, have a joint bank account or will their property to each other without being challenged by their families.

All this is possible because Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code treats LGBT people as criminals. A case currently being heard in the Delhi High Court calls for this law, imposed on us by the British, to be amended so that it no longer applied to consenting adults. This very small change will not remove all problems for LGBT people, but it will be a vital step towards affirming that we are equal and accepted citizens of India.

On June 29th LGBT people in Bengaluru, Delhi and Kolkata will march in the hope that this change will come soon. Kolkata first did this in 1999, and has done so every year since 2003. Today in 2008, Pride is going national as a sign that the time for national change has come.

hard with thinking your dick

your thinking with hard dick

thinking hard with your dick

your dick hard with thinking

hard with your thinking dick

your hard dick thinking with

your hard thinking with dick

your thinking with hard dick

thinking hard with your dick

your dick hard with thinking

hard with your thinking dick

your hard dick thinking with

your hard thinking with dick

your dick with hard thinking

hard thinking with your dick

your thinking dick hard with

hard your dick with thinking

with dick your thinking hard

hard dick with your thinking

© 2008 t zaman//N.A.M.A.A.Z productions

i live here for three weeks & realize one day on the sunny sidewalk on my way to the local coffee house that i am walking with my keys in my hand. my right hand, the way i do when i’m walking alone after dark. fingers fingering the sharp points like i’d caress a lover. almost cutting myself on the edge.

an afternoon of lemon yellow light & this distrust. i finish my descent down the hill toward high street, thinking of the men who clear a path for me on these macarthur boulevard sidewalks. who stop to tell me i’m pretty & then get out of my way.

i’m safe here, i think.

where am i?

my fingers are still rubbing my keys.

where am i? i’ve lived in this neighborhood before. on campus at mills. the gunshots on seminary avenue, on the other side of the college, hid from me the serenity of the oakland hills. now the absence of berkeley traffic noise and my fear of opening the front door at night could abate a little. i had returned to the laurel district, after all, for peace.

there’s something about those keys planted between my fingers, prepared to strike. there’s so much rage in my bones, fighting to reach the surface of my skin, i almost want someone to hassle me. i almost want to make a scene. i know if it happens, i will spill blood.

where am i? where are the nasty roommates who leave crusty food all over the kitchen? their snide side comments dripping with poison. the racket of late night BART trains whizzing by toward the freeway. the muggers who live around the corner. the purple house where they give away fresh produce on fridays.

once i reach the coffee shop, i put my keys away. between a novel & my wallet. i sling my purse over a chair. order my single decaf americano. watered down espresso for my picky stomach. that’s the table where a fiancé told me he fucked a prostitute while away in L.A. that’s the spot me & my lesbian lover, during my junior year of college, matched the amount of coffee in our cups with cold half-&-half. across the street is the apartment where we breakfasted before sex on saturday mornings, listening to KPFA. down the street is where i had my first-ever date with a woman. the taquería where i made her taste dark Senorial grape soda for the first time. right there, the bar & the burger stand where a large black man accused us of being lovers. “y’all are doin big things up there in college, ah?” big things. indeed.

the laurel district used to make me pine for whoever my lover was at the time. now, these streets are mine. i am making my home among these memories. these realities of struggle & slow ascent. the history of my consciousness. the years my rage was vented into politics, before poetry came back to redeem me.

at the laurel bookstore i read my work publicly for the first time. it was that year, 2004, that i decided to fuck becoming an intellectual property lawyer & write more poems instead.

after five years, i still don’t know where i am. but since my last major breakup, these streets have seemed to embrace me rather than stifle. love rather than chase away. i accept the love of the laurel the way i accept the love of those who have called me theirs somewhere among the names of these blocks: maybelle, fruitvale, hyacinth. love that didn’t outlast the macarthur boulevard concrete but was love nonetheless.

whose path will i cross next? fondling my keys between the fingers of my right hand, i walk toward 35th avenue, where a fresh salmon steak & my future await.

© tahminah zaman 2008

i walk east on macarthur boulevard, retracing my steps over places i’ve been loved. embraced. made love to. the memories thick under the soles of my sneakers. the moments that made wrinkles in the concrete. remembering, being, loved.

i check the eyes of everyone i pass. is it you? comes the convulsive question from way in the back of my head, where the tears don’t reach. & sometimes i think i see a flash of him. lanky, leggy, slender light brown man in subtle plaid & white new balance shoes. his aging face, his many expressions. cockeyed. confused. concentrating. the hundreds of tones of his voice, gentle, angry. impatient. unsatisfied.

the confidence & urgency in his stride. his tall back & gemini elegance. the way he could talk anyone up or bring anyone down to a depressive state in a few sentences.

are you him? rings between my ears when a flicker of recognition arrives. a familiar stranger like a mirror. who are you? each brown, male face a citation of his bengali features. someone’s laughter the sound of one of his lighter moods. now that he’s pushing 70, his fugues of mania & depression are longer than a few months each, like when i was growing up; he’s had some mellower years. but he’s never been well. never been stable. never had a proper diagnosis. my father never took his prozac because as long as he lacked a diagnosis, he didn’t feel the problem was real.

i always wanted to diagnose him. i needed to name what made my family strange, because my friends’ fathers never acted like him. they went to work, cooked for their kids, happily chauffeured them everywhere. came to their advisory meetings with teachers & school counselors. my mother always did those things; my father did them sometimes, & begrudgingly. often he hadn’t showered for weeks & had spent all his time on the couch vegetating in front of a blue-shadowed TV. he couldn’t hold a job partly because of his depression, partly because of his field.

the most money my dad ever made was estimating the costs of earthquake damage in southern california. he swindled people out of money with his independent engineering projects. he would take me & my sister, amber, with him to negotiate contracts & pretend to oversee the contractors’ progress. my much-older sister, shampa, 15 years my senior, told me he had an honest, successful business once, in oklahoma, where amber was born, before the white man took him down. he thought the multiculturalness of california would be better to him. he was wrong.

bipolar disease. when i was a kid, they called it manic-depressive disorder. over the years, it became one of my names. his variant moods, fugues, cycles, swings of inexplicable behavior remained predictably chaotic throughout my childhood. he was controlling & impatient, a terrible math tutor who pecked & clucked over imperfection and loudly disapproved of my less than perfect understanding of algebraic operations.

he was also prone to flight & traveled overseas indefinitely at a moment’s notice for no reason. this wacky behavior made us financially unstable, too. when i was 15 he stole the rent money my mother had saved & boarded a plane to bangladesh, unemployed, to claim my mother’s inheritance. a few days later, my mother, my sister amber, & i moved to las vegas to live in shampa’s converted garage.

chemical imbalances, it was explained to me. over the first 19 years of my life, i was steeped in it, sickened by it. i was a depressed teen, only happy at school. i’d watch the commercials advertising depression meds, the ones that listed all the symptoms, & i’d panic. crying daily? feeling alone? occasional suicidal ideations? the depression synched up with my cycle & slowly became more predictable over the years. when the opportunity came at 20, i used the certainty of my father’s illness to catch & stop the erratic bouts of depression. i gulped prozac for a year, then decided on psychotherapy for life in an attempt to avoid becoming my father–or being with someone like him. my partner of 2 years had just knocked me out. i saw bright white stars when he hit me. clearly, something needed to change. “chemical imbalance” or not!

the truth about his condition didn’t surface early. i was 23 years old when, during my mother’s last year of life, she told me that my father had been raped, molested as a child. he was born in rural bangladesh & staying with another family was his only chance at an education. so he did. that’s where it happened.

there were other details about my father in exile from his family. a dead man inexplicably hanging from a tree on his way to school. the combination of homelessness & ambition that drove him to the new world.

my mother married my dad to get revenge on her father, against my grandfather’s intuition. she was angry at him for remarrying after the early & unexpected death of her mother, the grandmother i never met.

immigration & my father got her hooked on nicotine. but the year my parents broke up–the year my father went to bangladesh & stayed away–my mother’s heart opened up. surgeons & scalpel & hammer performed a quadruple bypass that, along with medication, kept her alive for nine more years. four of those years were nicotine-free & quiet. then my parents decided to live together again. i was 19 & realized my mother wanted misery.

my father’s rape. it explained the dissociation between his various moods, his many faces, the extremity of his behavior. there had been a careful cover-up. a guarded secret & the secret cause of everything. the chaos & instability. it screamed of my family’s repression—our inability to communicate, to overcome difficulties together, to accept ourselves & one another. it explained the need for silence around my father’s mental illness.

my mother was the only one he ever told.

i don’t keep family secrets very well. i told shampa, who had no idea. who didn’t know what to do. she may not believe me. she didn’t want to hear that they were my mother’s own words. same thing with coming out to my crazy family. my sisters refuse to believe that my mother accepted me. which she did, privately.

i’m still seeking my father in the wood of my earrings, the metal of my cell phone. in the lines of hands & beneath the fingernails of the men i call lovers.

in the leaves of magnolias. the petals of garnet trees. between squares of dark chocolate. bags of tea stacked in tin. are you there? the echo. my voice stalking his. i recall a peal of his laughter. i see his mood brighten before me.

i still seek him. an insistence i can’t explain. a tugging desire. not quite nostalgia but the anxiety from which nostalgia springs. the psychotic space of separation from our origins. the dark path leading back to where i was born. to where the answers to all these questions are waiting.

i let myself be filled by this void. a place where the futility of words makes itself painfully known.

i am listening for my father’s voice in the sound of clock tower bells clanging against downtown oakland streets. in the sound of rain. naked in bed, beside a sleeping brown man who doesn’t love me, i measure my cinnamon limbs, tensed & exhausted, for sameness. check for my father’s lanky looseness. are you here?

© tahminah zaman 2008