My Friend in Fuchsia

In my sister’s wardrobe,

Wrapped between my grandmother’s Rajhastani jhumkas

And a fuchsia kameez for some phantasmal groom

Is where I first found him

Like a misplaced family heirloom,

Near the full-length mirror

At the back of the dressing room

Hidden there

Amongst bright jamawar pashminas and bobbinet bras

He emerged

Like a flaming rhapsody in a quiet, old haveli

Like a simulation of some bright, psychedelic reality

Like an old friend I had been aching for

Unknowingly

And after dancing clumsily

In feeble silver stilettos and a deep-red velvet bodice

That could have- and should have-

Been his second skin

Over my frail male parts

He fled with a tissue-thin heart

At the sound of my mother’s voice

But I knew he’d always be there

Waiting

Until the next time that he could tear up the tissue

And stuff all his heart

Into the vacant space between his chest and the world