Mata Hari from Shillong
Tell me who drops in often,
or if she comes holding someone’s hand;
don’t be suspicious if you find her on
the backseat of a Bajaj scooter, because
(the men I would loathe wouldn’t have such
an old model. Why do Bajaj scooters and fathers
sound the same?)
Her father’s black and white photo is
on Facebook, as her profile-pic. Handsome, lean,
he sits beside a pair of tablas. I try to find
traces of myself in it. (Why
do girls like men who remind them of
their fathers?)
When you meet her, shake her hands slowly
to see if there is a wedding ring with someone
else’s name inscribed in gold,
block letters, cursive.
Hang around her, check if she makes too
many calls, smiles too much on the phone; says
the magic three words before hanging up. You
should find out how a girl says that to mothers,
fathers, brothers, best-friends; I don’t think
Assamese girls would say them differently. But
I trust you, because you are my Mata Hari
from Shillong, who wouldn’t bring the clouds
to the plains, but only the flash of jeinsengss
woven with the threads of lightning.