Hymns for the hybrid
“Mama, why is it bad to cook one cupful of rice?”
“Because it signifies death. A cupful of rice is only cooked at funerals.”
“But I’ve never even seen anyone serve rice at funerals.”
No, not here, my daughter,
Not in this wheat mine.
But we did serve rice at funerals,
back in Paradise Island.
It’s funny how I willingly speak of
disease and death,
Just to be able to talk of home.
Back then, disease was taboo.
Our mothers “shushed” us when we spoke of death.
I thought their myths were silly.
I’ve told it to them myself.
But now the notorious daughter
refuses to cook one cupful of rice,
refuses to eat fried food outside, and
refuses to shower on Tuesdays,
without even knowing the reason why.
I don’t want to know the reason why.
Following the myths of homeland,
knowing the science behind them,
would make me a rational.
I don’t want to be a rational.
I crave to be the blind follower.
Each time I add a cupful of rice to the pot,
only to quickly follow by another fistful,
The fragrance of the jasmine rice
suddenly becomes that of my mother.
I yearn to lie down on the floor
and allow the sweet fragrance of the rice (or my mother, I no longer know which)
to suffocate me.
Published in the British Council Poetry Anthology, No one is listening