Now what am I? What have I made of myself and my children? We cannot exercise our rights. Humility and insults, who is responsible for all this? Me and the American government. . . . Obstacles this way, blockades that way, and bridges burnt behind.—from Vaishno Das Bagai’s suicide letter, San Francisco Examiner, March 17, 1928
1. Inner Light
As a boy, visiting blood
in the warmer regions
in the warmer regions
of Hindustan, bursting
with a sorrow he did not
with a sorrow he did not
yet understand, he stuffed
his mouth with the fire
his mouth with the fire
of fireflies, haunting
his bemused cousins
his bemused cousins
with a flickering
smile, all teeth and flint
smile, all teeth and flint
spark. Before they drowned
in the spit of unspoken
in the spit of unspoken
wishes, he gulped them
down, believing, thanks
down, believing, thanks
to the delicious God-bending
bak-bak of his best friend,
bak-bak of his best friend,
Muhammad, a princely Pathan,
eyes bewitched by
eyes bewitched by
a marrow-deep lust
for independence,
for independence,
that the swallowed magic
of their light would guide
of their light would guide
his ache-shackled
heart toward a purer
heart toward a purer
promise of home waiting
beyond the untouchable
beyond the untouchable
hunger of this stolen land’s
stolen futures,
stolen futures,
in a place perfected by freedom
and christened America.
and christened America.
2. San Francisco
For thirteen years he woke
haunted by the dreamt-of smells
of Peshawar—his father’s
haunted by the dreamt-of smells
of Peshawar—his father’s
neem-fragrant breath, his mother’s
hair, its coconut oil–pungent
blooming comfort, the punch
hair, its coconut oil–pungent
blooming comfort, the punch
of gardenia ghosting through
night’s fragile stillness. Sometimes
even the kneeling crave of sun-
night’s fragile stillness. Sometimes
even the kneeling crave of sun-
baked water-buffalo dung burning
beneath an immense copper
daig of moong daal, enough
beneath an immense copper
daig of moong daal, enough
to feed every hunger-striking
prisoner back home or to last until
the first blare of Judgment Day’s
prisoner back home or to last until
the first blare of Judgment Day’s
trumpet call, until the bladed
shards of a shattered American sky
smashed against his brown face.
shards of a shattered American sky
smashed against his brown face.
His wife, Kala, and their three sons,
had allowed Bagai to forsake Brahma,
to turn his faith toward the blue-
had allowed Bagai to forsake Brahma,
to turn his faith toward the blue-
eyed gods of Transformation
who had greeted them at the gates
of Angel Island with flameless
who had greeted them at the gates
of Angel Island with flameless
lanterns, festering wounds to mark
the sites of amputated wings.
Kala had given into the delusion too,
the sites of amputated wings.
Kala had given into the delusion too,
had, out of mercy, learned to bite
her cautioning tongue, to silence doubt,
to sweet-talk away the undeniable—
her cautioning tongue, to silence doubt,
to sweet-talk away the undeniable—
that one day her husband’s blood
would mount the most vicious
testimony against him.
would mount the most vicious
testimony against him.
