Daya Bhat lives and writes in Bangalore, India.

Attuned
By Daya Bhat

Just in time
just as I think
no one must know my name
like a streak of lightning in the dead ash sky
like the hide and seek of a million times before
you write the letters
one by one.
Now I think
should I be known
to you or to anyone
by THESE letters.
I would be me
with or without them.
And suddenly this urge
to break all ties with my name.
I ask you to name this madness.
You say my name again with a—
—
Synonymous, comes very close.
—
why would I need a prison cell
with the geometry of these shapes!

Just in time
just when I am done
behaving like my name
like a million times before
like the reminder of a death sentence
my name forms the purse and unpurse of your lips.
Those vowel sounds
the torque of those rigid consonants.
Now I shuffle them
permutations and combinations
none sounds like me
but then like always
you make peace between us
don’t buses too have names?
and then you add the stars
the sun and the moon
you add and add some more.
No
not convinced.
Somehow they all seem inside the prison cell
fixated, known by their orbits
victims of their own names.

Just in time
just when I think
none should take my name
you do
and my unprepared—I am listening—follows.
My name my reflex
both habitual offenders.