second innings

in another universe, my pappa is holding a bat

and people are all silent, holding breaths in anticipation

and as the ball hurtles towards him

they all stand up to applaud, whistling and cheering in Gujarati

and he’s running between the stumps with a wide smile on his face

and i know it’s a dierent universe, because my pappa only smiles

in the greyed photos of my dadi’s album, with their kafnis rumpled

and sleeves rolled up, with the sun shining on their brown skin

and he’s checking his watch, a hadya from my dada

waiting for the ten minutes until it’s time to return

back to the factory for his shift, and instead of stumps

he’s running down the aisles of cloth and machinery

heaving large boxes, straining his muscles and back

and i know that at eighteen, he should be writing essays

yet is writing bills for my dada to post at the bank,

and his English is perfect yet the clerk furrows his brows

and my pappa shrinks under his judgment, wondering

whether he could make it back for chai before half-done homework

or he’d have to repeat my dada’s requests clearly, with no accent

and instead, the clerk points to the purple mark on his face—

where he’d forgotten to revise for his chemistry exam,

but he calls it a ‘cricket injury’ because he thinks

Sachin worn have worn it the same, except my pappa

lives halfway across the world from his home, and i complain

about too cold showers in the morning and too much sugar in my chai

and his eyes are on the news, looking at my team on the headlines

celebrating my hattrick over the weekend — and everyone knows my name

yet it was his name before it was ever mine.

by Haleema Ougradar