Diditi Mitra
(USA)
<diditimitra@gmail.com>

 

Diditi Mitra earned her doctoral degree in Sociology from Temple University. Her work is focused in the areas of race and immigration. Her work has been published in peer reviewed scholarly journals. She has also published two books (‘Immigrant Punjabi Mobility in the United States: Adaptation through race and class’ & ‘Race and the Lifecourse: Readings from the intersection of race, ethnicity and age’). Diditi is also trained in the north Indian classical dance form of Kathak and has performed in various venues in the United States. She lives in USA.
 

 
  One Summer Evening

Together,
we sat. Silence masked the words.
The coffee table in the center,
cupped the stillness between
its legs; it contained the frantic quality
buzzing around in the air
that one summer evening.
Through the periphery,
I remembered to look at the sun,
setting;
its glow fading
quietly, stunned into sadness,
unable to
drop through the clutter of
human words, unspoken,
splattered all around,
as it witnessed
two people suspended from
each other, who could not reach
through the knot of
history and about to
unfurl, like flags seeking freedom
from the cloth
that had sealed their fate
into permanence.

Remembrance

Inhabit the pulse
that beats within you,
only then will you learn
to breathe
Inhabit the milk
that flows out of you,
only then will you learn
to taste
Inhabit the tears
that rest on your eyelids,
only then will you learn
to see
Inhabit the blood
that trickles down your throat,
only then will you learn
to feel
Most of all -
Inhabit the dreams with which
you were born
only then will you learn
to love
Fraying, slowly

Whimpering with delight,
I see temptation fraying at
the edges; it is
ripe with remorse, repentant
with every whisper,
undone like the raindrops
coming down slowly in the midst
of a thick fog over the rainbow,
calling out to the chains
fastened around
the belly of its creator.

Mother’s Ashes

Like that bird, far away,
distant, small, but free,
I breathe freedom from
the ashes that once
belonged to my mother.

Un-laced

It drips,
onto the shoelace,
final,
as if singing the chorus of a song
never heard before cascading,
on the bed, coarse
from the sand
washed ashore
after, the storm, last
night.

***
© Author

(Published in Kafla Intercontinental - Summer 2015)