Destruction of Sins: Three Poems by Fatima Hijas

Papanasam, ‘the destruction of sins’

At the driving class again,

a short stop for my instructor to put in paperwork at the road transport office,

car heated like an oven,

my chiffon scarf stowed away in the backseat, the February sun burns my hands on the steering wheel;

I look out from the rolled down window, a woman naps at her makeshift shop,

framed picture of Jesus, six red tinged sarsaparilla sherbet bottles, her radio playing old Tamil songs;

The other driving student is sitting with her little daughter in the backseat, we try to talk the child into going to the school, the impish child nods noncommittally,

the woman is from a faraway town and has no friends here,

her town is named ‘the destruction of sins’ in Tamil,

she asks for my name, “oh you are a Muslim akka!”, she exclaims delightedly;

We watch our instructor, she is flitting about the premises, a load of papers for her students’

road tests, crisp green silk saree and tennis shoes;

She brings the woman in the backseat a glass tumbler of hot coffee, do I want one too? “No

thank you,”

I drive on, she giving out recipes for a mutton curry to the other woman,

(side-note from her: the best mutton shop is in the Muslim area in this town), and instructions on how to shift into the next gear to me

A week later, the instructor tells me that the woman in the backseat had gone back to

hometown,

a husband who drank and beat her face to a pulp,

my driving turned erratic, but the instructor ignores it, presses down full clutch and half brake with her side of the controls,

we talk of the many women who are beaten,

the destruction of sins,

“What can she do, she has a small child?”

Going home

Sometimes, I get breathless.

In a bad way.

I can't continue to learn programming.

I wish the digital screen would soak me in.

Thinking of going 'home'.

I don't call the parents often.

I wonder what I would do if I were home, and have to care for my children alone.

I am the bridge between my children and my parents.

Sometimes, I wish they would grow up soon, then they can build their own bridges.

I am a dangling rope bridge, not much use to the uncertain traveler.

If my mothers were not home, or even if they were.

I don't fit in.

I don't do the things women do at home.

I don't fit in anywhere.

My cousins are strangers.

My children's cousins are disconnected from us.

I see their photos, sometimes they see ours.

I have lost the practice of talking to them.

Living with them would be another art.

Who am I to them?

My daughter frowns at me when I don't pick up my mother's call.

How do we justify

how do we justify

the lives we lead?

in the twisted story of this place,

which lets the common man own guns,

but the common man is dumb enough,

they say,

to not understand the rules,

and so he can shoot in the head,

a teenager who knocks on his door,

looking for his little siblings.

---

About the Poet:

Fatima Hijas grew up in many places in India and is now raising her kids in many other places. She has contributed short stories in print anthologies, The Ordinary Chaos of Being Human (Penguin SEA), Khushk Zubaan, Bebaak Jigar (Red River, New Delhi), and Autonomy (New Binary Press, Ireland), and in The Open Dosa journal. She writes about untangling her views on holding onto her roots, women and children, faith and a migratory life.