Navdeep Kaur
Aarsi- a mirror, a reflection of the constant changes that take place in life. A writer's musings.
Friday, April 5, 2019
Monday, August 27, 2018
New Website
Dear Readers,
All of my writing activity is being moved to www.nkaur.com. I hope to see you there!
-Navdeep Kaur
All of my writing activity is being moved to www.nkaur.com. I hope to see you there!
-Navdeep Kaur
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Knowing Dark Before Light
I was conceived in the
darkness of night.
For months I have been
walled in a round ring.
I have slept soundly
without seeing light.
I have been touched
from afar by something.
I have felt vibrations
of a cold probe
And for protection held
tight to a string.
Sheltering myself quiet
in the robe
When I heard her
desperate cries outside.
This is all my
existence on the globe.
Nobody will picture me
as his bride;
I’m icy, without a
burial site
After my chance at
light has been denied.
Known by all as the one
who was not right.
I am one who has known
dark before light.
(Dedicated to all of our sisters who are victimized because of their gender.)
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Genes
In broken brown shoes
and tattered old clothes
Like a plastic bag
floating down long roads.
He’s the child who
should have never been born.
His parents look at
him, eyes filled with scorn:
The color of his hair,
shape of his nose,
Are the qualities they
wished to dispose
Of while he was still
unformed—an unborn.
He is who he is, he
can’t be reborn
His genes are his
forever, can’t be changed.
Love pieced together
what has now been torn,
It’d be better if he
had stayed unborn.
His colors, his shapes,
were all prearranged
By a force of life that
can’t be estranged.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Irish Teacher
“Mrs.
Fitzgerald doesn’t let her class celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.” I was in awe of the
fifth grade girl talking to me about her teacher.
“But why?” I
asked. I understood only that for some reason everybody must wear green on St.
Patrick’s Day. Like Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter, and 4th
of July, I understood it to be an American thing. In India we had celebrated
days associated with the various religions that originated in the nation. I
didn’t remember any festival or holiday having dress codes. People wear
costumes on Halloween and everything seems to be orange and black. Red and pink
cover walls and people alike on Valentine’s Day. Pastel colors for Easter. Red,
white, and blue for United States’ Independence Day. And green on St. Patrick’s
Day.
The fifth
grader’s answer was simple, “Because she’s Irish.”
As a third
grader with limited English proficiency and budding knowledge of the world, I
asked, “What’s Irish?”
“Like you’re
Indian. She comes from Ireland, so she’s Irish. I’m Irish too.” With that, she
was gone. And I thought. Ireland must be like India, a place people leave and
move here. Indians travelled to England, France, Dubai, Saudi Arabia, Italy,
and Spain. I knew those were countries that offered more money and better jobs.
We had relatives and family acquaintances that had moved there. Though Indians
moved to all these countries, nobody outside of India celebrated Diwali, the festival
of lights or Holi, the season for color. I mused for days. St. Patrick’s Day
was coming and I had to decide whether I should wear green and why.
I began to
notice more people who looked Irish: everybody who had dirty blonde hair and
fair skin. I realized that many Americans were either British—we were learning
about the Colonies in Social Studies—or Irish. Because there were more British
immigrants, their holidays: Christmas, Valentine’s, Easter, Halloween all
travelled with them and became American celebration days. There were fewer
Irish so they got one holiday: St. Patrick’s Day.
I felt bad for
the Irish. Their smaller number meant they had claim to one day a year. I
realized how there were only one other Indian kid in my school and scattered
Indian communities throughout the area that we shopped and lived in. I wanted
an Indian holiday to be celebrated just like St. Patrick’s Day, so I decided to
wear green. I was wearing green to support the minorities because I knew somewhere
inside me that if we help someone, God will send others to help us as well.
I wore green
again in fourth grade. More Indian kids came to our school and I could see my
idea becoming a possible reality.
In fifth grade, I had Mrs. Fitzgerald as my teacher. She wore
ankle-length dresses in floral prints, with long, thin ties at her lower back
and rounded necklines; I imagined that this was how the Irish women dress. She said that was her culture—she would not
wear short dresses or revealing clothing.
Mrs. Fitzgerald called the class to attention before St.
Patrick’s Day, “I’m Irish and for me St. Patrick’s Day is not about
leprechauns, rainbows, and pots of gold. St. Patrick’s Day is a celebration of
Ireland’s patron saint and should be observed respectfully.” The class knew not
to pinch those not wearing green and to not advertise the leprechauns when
creating holiday craft projects. Though other teachers in the future would tell
us that they could trace their roots to Ireland, they were all American. Mrs.
Fitzgerald was Irish.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Two Apples
Two apples twinkled
among green leaves,
And I stood thinking
which to pluck
For my arid lips,
lengthy unease
Shaded one in the
darkening eve
Cautioning me of
obscured muck.
I reached for the
other, just as bright,
A thinner coat of wax
on its skin
After being shined on
my sleeve’s inside,
Though both glowed in
the waning light
Similar as identical
twins.
Under the setting sun
they called
My hands, inviting by
freshness.
But my decision
couldn’t be stalled.
Knowing that as life
went forward
The chosen apple would
go amiss.
I left behind the waxed
apple,
I’ve chosen one simpler
than the other.
Of the two, I plucked
one less ample
In its shine; a genuine
sample,
And today that is all
that matters.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Dancing
Photo Courtesy of LiteLens Photography Like them on Facebook! |
Are we dancing?
Is there rain in the
clouds?
Is the wind blowing
from north to south?
Is the sun shining from
east to west?
Tell me the burdens you
carry in your chest.
Are we dancing?
Are there shadows in
between?
Is there a rope pulling
at our strings?
Do you believe in
possibilities?
Give me a hope; a
signal please.
Are we dancing?
Is there music playing
around?
What are the lyrics to
the song you sing?
Do you know where we
twist and turn?
Let’s fly away without
waiting for the urn.
Are we dancing?
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