My grand­par­ents in January
on a gar­den swing
dis­cuss old friends from Rangoon,
the par­lia­men­tary ses­sion, chrysanthemums,
an elec­tric­i­ty bill.

In the shad­ows, I eavesdrop,
eighth grand­child, periph­er­al, half-forgotten,
enveloped carelessly
by the great win­ter shawl of their affection.

Our dis­sen­sions are ceremonial.
I growl obligingly
when he speaks of a Hin­du nation,
he waves a dis­mis­sive hand
when I threat­en romance with a Pak­istani cricketer.

But there is more that con­nects us
than speech flavoured with the tart­ness of old curd
that links me fleet­ing­ly to her,
and a blur­ry out­line of nose
that links me to him,
and there is more that con­nects us
than their daugh­ter who birthed me.

I ask for no more.
Irre­place­able, I belong here
like I nev­er will again,
my cre­den­tials nev­er in question,
my ter­tiary nook in a gnarled fam­i­ly tree
non-negotiable.

 And we both know
they will nev­er need me
as much as I, them.
The inequal­i­ty is comforting.

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