Like Rama I have felt the wilderness

but I have not been blessed

with a companion as sweet as she,

Sita; loyal, pure and true of heart.

Like her I have been chastened

through trial by fire. Sita and I,

spiritual sari-sisters entwined

in an infinite silk that would swathe

Draupadi’s blush. My name

a journey between rough and smooth,

an interlacing of banyan leaves with sugar

cane. Woven tapestries of journeys;

travelling from South

to North, where the Punjabi in my mouth

became dislodged as milk teeth fell

and hit infertile English soil.

My mouth toiled to accommodate

the rough musicality of Mancunian vowels

and my name became a stumble

that filled English mouths

with a discordant rhyme, an exotic

rhythm dulled, my voice a mystery

in the Anglo echo chamber—

void of history and memory.

Raman Mundair