by Kuhu Joshi
On a date with the boy I finally like
I talk about my father.
How he found my mother
at the officers’ academy, smiling
and pinning her sarees.
I tell my date, biting into ravioli, my father hunted
for the woman who would birth me
in the bowl of her lap, humming
lullabies. My father still in office.
“I really like this guy,” I texted my girlfriends
from the bathroom on WhatsApp.
And of course I didn’t tell my date
how the story unfolded. My father twisted
my arm, and more, on my sixteenth birthday.
I was laughing with a boy, unwrapping
presents. I still blew the candles,
light in the bruise of the night
and after, my mother stroked my curls
on her lap and said, “He is not a monster,”
“He is not a monster.” “I want to date him,”
“I want to date him,” my mind was flashing
as I sat across this warm and confident
man who made me laugh so hard
my kajal ran the length of my cheek. O,
I wanted, then, to love him.
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