This piece is part of the Mehfil folio, which features original art by Jasjyot Singh Hans.

Alap  

in the beginning 
an old refrigerator, one parent, or both, 
dirty bowls filled with turmeric stains and the silence 
of crossed arms above 
me, small and waiting.  

it won’t be easy, they say,  
and I want to say show me an easy life 
I want to ask, what part of me claimed easy, grief a prologue
in the hunch of my back, escape plan etched onto my wrist 

this was never going to be easy— 

in the beginning,  
one parent, or both, an old refrigerator, a baby with ten fingers
a tan and a crop of hair that means they don’t even have to look 
for the name tag, not here, not in this hospital in America 
which is to say the Midwest  
which is to say landing point, 
first of many, 
my mother crying into the phone because she doesn’t know
where to find turmeric, where  
the pain in her stomach is coming from,  
my father learning to cross his arms 

this was never going to be easy— 
but oh, the laughter, it hurts 

Foundations in Teentaal 

Sitting in a classroom, I am six, I am twelve, I am twenty-four
It must be so hard, they say, with wide, sympathetic eyes, they
see brown, they see immigrant, they see no-middle-name. 
Tell them you were born here, my mother says, the passport 
a key she tucks in my backpack beside emergency phone
numbers and a carefully packed lunch. You know this story. 
How the locks in their eyes never turned. But they never knew
that even now, even still, brownness means joy, means 

the memory of grief in shaking hands, stories knotted into
generations like gold tucked in fleeing saris; they don’t know
my mother actually dances in the kitchen, and so do I, my
parents passing old songs back and forth like another 

child, this past of theirs, this throughline of laughter. It
was so hard. Do you remember? How hard it was? This
was never going to be easy. But sometimes it hurts
because you forgot to stretch before waltzing beside the 

pressure cooker, sometimes it hurts because you’ve heard
this story a million times before and it never stops being
funny, sometimes your aunt hugs you so hard you remember
you have ribs, you remember you have something holding 

your heart, your lungs, your blood-full memories, all
the orange slices your parents could fit into your
lunchbox. This was never going to be easy—but oh, the
love. oh, the memories. oh, the laughter,  
how it goes on— 

Love Story in Teentaal 

I am tired of one-tone queer stories, 
withered bloom, ends-too-soon queer stories, 
torn sleeve, don’t-leave, next-life maybe  
stories, because loving you 

is the happiest thing I’ve ever 
begun 

Not the easiest—god forbid  
we get easy but happiness  
tucked in your jean jacket 
pockets, joy tangled up with our 

pressed fingertips, press of lips 
that means you’re hiding a smile,  
joy that means stay a while, linger 
in the kitchen with the tea
no, chai, made properly the way 
one of our moms does it because
they don’t agree on anything but
elaichi and ginger and the
grief-stricken joy  

of having daughters.  

it was never going to be easy, 
but the laughter— 

braided into our temporary rent  
agreement, pigmented like  
long-distance lipstain your roommate
ordered and then hated,  

loud like the sirens past our windows,
hushed like phone calls walking 
home (not alone) in the dark, clenched
like fists under tables where our words 

are ignored— 
it was never going to be easy,  

but look how good we are at dreaming. at
painting kitchens yet-to-be with sunbeams,
at wishing laughlines into foreheads creased
with grief we’ve yet to hold.  

you once said queerness is about 
enduring. I told you queerness  
is the memory of grief. look at us, 
both being right. look at us, laughing— 

it’s the happiest thing we’ve begun. 
it is never going to be easy.