It is peak rush hour on a Saturday

The machine keeps printing orders

Havermelk cappuccino, berry matcha, flat white

La Marzocco set to make two double espressos at a time 

My colleague and I are overwhelmed 

But completely in sync

We have done one too many weekend shifts together 

She runs out of kokosmelk mid-pour and 

I reach for another carton in the lower fridge compartment without looking 

As I pass her the new box, blood drips on the floor 

And we are shocked

I had no idea the fridge racks had such sharp edges 

Applying pressure on the wound, I sit outside for a bit 

Once I see no one is looking, I call my mum

And a big tear rolls down my cheek

In the evening I am at a borrel  

And a friend asks if it’s turmeric on the open wound 

I roll my eyes at the dumb question 

And we laugh 

“You are soooo Indian”

I am Indian in every alternate reality

I was Indian in every past life 

And I sure hope I am Indian in all remaining ones

I say this quite often 

Draupadi

I believe with my whole heart, I was Draupadi

I even take extra hot showers with the exhaust fan off

So that when I step out of the shower, 

I can pretend I am stepping out of the sacred sacrificial fire 

I am yagnaseni 

And now I am Jasmita 

The Indian who loves India from abroad(????!!?)

I am embarrassed to even think it

How come I love my country and its culture 

But only from afar?

Was I an escapist Indian in my previous lives as well?

Or did I participate in making my country corrupt, classist 

And still dancing in a colonial hangover?

Did I serve an oppressive monarch? 

Or was I an earnest queen?

Was I forced to be a sati? Did I jump into a jauhar kund?

Was I a woman who fought for freedom from the empire?

Or was I one of those raped, killed or sold during the partition?

Maybe I wrote revolutionary poetry under a man’s pen name

Maybe I died of starvation in the Bengal famine

Was I a consequential woman? 

Or a nameless statistic in the news? 

I don’t remember, maybe my body does 

Maybe the tear I shed at the sight of blood remembers  

I know how much blood was shed to let a girl who looks like me 

Be in a European cafe working side-by-side with a European 

As equals 

The intersectional disadvantages I have unknowingly overcome

Brown, woman, middle class, religious but on my own terms and still

I am free, liberated, emancipated 

And every other synonym 

Because the Indians before me fought

Protested, persevered, paid

The price of my freedom 

History textbooks, museums, news channels and streets

Full of bloodshed

Oppression

Monarchies 

Corruption 

Caste systems 

Dowry deaths

Patriarchy 

Persistent poverty 

Partial opportunities 

I wonder how much turmeric it would take to stop my country from

Still bleeding