From across the sea,

back to “where I’m from,”

is a plethora, a pandora’s chest, 

of new anxieties.

But the key to its lock

knows no place for rest,

for the mask, where I can’t see

if who I am is who I should be

or if all I am is a bumbling mess,

slips on. Not wherever I may be,

but when I am at a place of prayer

and peace - it holds my sight under arrest.

A coloniser in my own home,

back in the desh, the best of Bangladesh,

my country of birth and beginning.

It is beautiful and vibrant, sky sewn

with diverse calls and colours sundried bright,

and houses rich with a mosquito’s singing.

I shriek and startle, unnerved with woe,

the village is rural and different - I’m struck

by unfamiliarity in almost everything.

Distrustful of its true potential, I’m thrown

between admitting deceit or painting my portrait a fool,

my mask of mockery never bleeds despite the lying.

Not a word can be spoken

to coerce me into ease,

not in Bangla, nor English, nor any other 

way can console me. My manner is woven

with anxieties, many I’ve never before heard

and that didn’t cross with me over the border.

Overwhelming love, seldom rare in moments

is all that surrounds me there, wrapped in the warmth

of my enthroned title as eldest granddaughter,

but seldom rare also, is another’s token.

Could this love dissipate to hate, to spite, to rage?

If I reveal my true nature, would they turn to my past and mourn her?

At a masjid, back in England, sitting with a cousin,

wearing a coat in the sun, catching a cold, spreading one,

waiting for orders, dutiful and on command,

speeding ahead to lend a helping hand, causing

a good laugh with a joke or two, feeling at ease,

distracted by talk and work’s demands.

Volunteering is easy, volunteering is fun,

I can’t ever relax with a rested mind

as doubt trickles in, slicker than quick sand.

It’s Ramadan, it’s great, I spend time cutting

out lanterns, mindless work perfect for me.

But without it, I’m rendered mentally unable to stand.

An imposter, who wears no veil and yet is masked.

A muslim who has no business being where they are.

An actor who’s deadly enough to be thrown off stage.

Wracked by guilt, helpless without mindless tasks,

I put on a smile like normal and felt horrible. How dare

I exist when someone so much better could be in my place?

I need to work. I need to help, around my neck, my collar’s clasp

is chained to my usefulness. I must make up for earth

that is trodden on by my shoes, the air wasted on my face.

My silent apology for my being, my subservient part

unwilling to accept that I deserve to be anything other, for after all

my chapter’s dark ink must never stain anyone else’s page.

My deeds are done, 

they’ve been done by me.

I’m an imposter as a Bengali.

My deeds are done,

by none other than me.

I’m an imposter as a muslim hijabi.

My deeds are done,

the only one who can claim them is me.

But what deed have I ever done

that proved I deserved for that person to be me?

[Note: I went to Bangladesh for three weeks and felt like I didn’t belong there due to my lack of skill with Bengali and being out of touch with its customs. A few phrases in the second and third stanzas are true thoughts that ran through my head in my time there: “coloniser in my own home” “mask of mockery”. The second half is about my going to volunteer at a nearby masjid, that I’ve known for years, with my cousin yet still feeling out of place with all of the people there. This one is more vivid and thus more focused and accurate to the thoughts I had there.]