Dreaming in Gujarati

The children in my dreams
speak in Gujarati
turn their trusting faces to the sun
say to me
care for us nurture us
in my dreams I shudder and I run.

I am six
in a playground of white children
Darkie, sing us an Indian song!
in a roomful of elders
all mock my broken Gujarati
English girl!

Twelve, I tunnel into books
forge an armor of English words.
Eighteen, shaved head
combat boots -
shamed by masis
in white saris
neon judgments
singe my western head.
Mother tongue.
tongue of the mother
I murder in myself.

Through the years I watch Gujarati
swell the swaggering egos of men
mirror them over and over
at twice their natural size.
Through the years
I watch Gujarati dissolve
bones and teeth of women, break them
on anvils of duty and service, burn them
to skeletal ash.
Words that don’t exist in Gujarati:

English rises in my throat
rapier flashed at yuppie boys
who claim their people “civilized” mine.
Thunderbolt hurled
at cab drivers yelling
Dirty black bastard!
Force-field against teenage hoods
F****ing Paki bitch!
Their tongue - or mine?
Have I become the enemy?

my father speaks Urdu
language of dancing peacocks
rosewater fountains
even its curses are beautiful.
He speaks Hindi
suave and melodic
earthy Punjabi
salty rich as saag paneer
coastal Kiswahili
laced with Arabic,
he speaks Gujarati
solid ancestral pride.
Five languages
five different worlds
yet English
before white men
who think their flat cold spiky words
make the only reality.

Words that don’t exist in English:

If we cannot name it
does it exist?
When we lose language
does culture die? What happens
to a tongue of milk-heavy
cows, earthen pots
jingling anklets, temple bells,
when its children
grow up in Silicon Valley
to become

Then there’s American:
Kin'uh get some service?
Dontcha have ice?
May I have please?
Ben, mane madhath karso?
Tafadhali nipe rafiki
Donnez-moi, s'il vous plait
Puedo tener…..
Hello, I said can I get some service?!
Like, where’s the line for Ay-mericans
in this goddamn airport?
Words that atomized two hundred thousand Iraqis:
Didja see how we kicked some major ass in the Gulf?
Lit up Bagdad like the fourth a’ July!
Whupped those sand-niggers into a parking lot!

The children in my dreams speak in Gujarati
bright as butter
succulent cherries
sounds I can paint on the air with my breath
dance through like a Sufi mystic
words I can weep and howl and devour
words I can kiss and taste and dream
this tongue
I take back.

Shailja Patel, Migritude (2010)

From my collection:
An Abbasi Dynasty gold dinar coin from 784AD during the rule of Khalfat Mohammed Almahdi.
This is the oldest piece that I own and my favourite also.

دينار ذهب عباسي صك في عهد الخليفه محمد المهدي عام ١٦٨ هجري.
هي من اقدم ما املك واعزها على نفسي.

Abu Yahya Zakariya ibn Muhammad ibn Mahmud-al-Qazwini, Wonders of the Seven Seas (Marvels of Things Created and Miraculous Aspects of Things Existing); facsimile of a page from an illuminated manuscript transcribed some time in the 17th or 18th century (Persia).


A little something I’ve always wanted to do- Special effects from the 1920’s to the 1940’s.

For the sake of sanity, I left off some details of the traveling matte processes…. them’s pretty complicated things!

(Hm I gotta work on my graphic design chops…. gettin kinda rusty)


ظل الضوء

ليلة في النوم عندما لا تكون واعية
عندما طريقي غير مؤكد ،
وألا تغادره أبدا…
أنا لا يتخلى أبدا!
تحمل في مناطق أعلى
في واحدة من عهد السلام :
انها ‘من الوقت لمغادرة هذه الدوامة من الأرواح.
أنه لم يترك لي ، ،.
أنا لا يتخلى أبدا!
لماذا ، للأفراح ومحبة أعمق
أو أكثر اعتدالا الأشواق للقلب
ليست سوى ظلال الضوء ،
أتذكر ، وأنا سعيدة
بعيدا عن القوانين ؛
كما على عدم اضاعة الوقت ولقد غادر.
وألا تغادره أبدا…
أنا لا يتخلى أبدا!
لماذا ، والسلام التي سمعت في بعض الأديرة ،
فهم أو الاحتفال حيوية لجميع الحواس ،
ليست سوى ظلال الضوء ،

L’Ombra della Luce

Difendimi dalle forze contrarie,
la notte, nel sonno, quando non sono cosciente;
quando il mio percorso, si fa incerto.
E non mi abbandonare mai…
Non mi abbandonare mai!
Riportami nelle zone più alte
in uno dei tuoi regni di quiete:
E’ tempo di lasciare questo ciclo di vite.
E non mi abbandonare mai…
Non mi abbandonare mai!
Perchè, le gioie del più profondo affetto,
o dei più lievi aneliti del cuore,
Sono solo l'ombra della luce.
Ricordami, come sono infelice
lontano dalle tue leggi;
come non sprecare il tempo che mi rimane.
E non mi abbandonare mai!
Perchè, la pace che ho sentito in certi monasteri,
o la vibrante intesa di tutti i sensi in festa,
sono solo l'ombra della luce.