“Strictly no palmyrahs on your drawings dear,
It’s national level, after all,” the teacher warned.
“You never know who marks your paper,
Or what language he speaks.
Better be discreet, and hold it back,
Who you are, what you are,
Or where you’re from.”
Years roll by – the capital’s my new lover.
“She’s Tamil.” “She’s from Jaffna.”
The default tags mark me before I speak.
The first part has lost its charm, apparently.
The latter, fascinating still.
I get a look as if I’m from a distant past,
Like I’ve been resurrected right out of a history book.
Only, I have no clue which page I’m from.
I keep searching in every one of those looks
For whatever my examiner might have found or felt.
The little girl in me wonders and
Whispers yet again,
“Can I draw a palmyrah, and
Have it mean just another tree?”
Christine Kanula Mariyathasan