What constitutes a woman?
Her eyes, her slanty small eyes
Her nose, her broad low nasal bridge
Her skin, her soft yellow skin
Her face, her broad budding face
Her hair, her streaming black hair
Her breasts, her tiny uninviting breasts
For which no suitable bra exists in ‘her’ country
For which she needs to find the most expensive one in ‘her’ country
Which resemble nothing like the onscreen celebrity’s.

Her dress, her flamboyant cotton sari
Her anguish, of not belonging anywhere,
of floating around in an ahistorical space,
of being asked to belong to her mother.
Her voice, her elegant voice that speaks of genital organs,
A faceless corpse, robbed of her face, her body, her head, her voice.
A human with blood and veins and a river of memories.