I sit cross legged on the green of the grass that flourished unexpectedly, under the blazing London sun that tries to imitate the Lahore sun, thinking of the misty drizzle of metallic Hong Kong rain and the fiery red autumn leaves of Virginia backyards; I often smell bonfires of my village in the nooks and crannies of this city. The plastic oranges assembled meaningfully in their grocery stores degrade the oranges of my vast orchards which are lined and irrigated perpetually in my brain. I am forever immobilized between spasms of nostalgia that linger like a mad man’s drunken slur.
Forever a foreigner. A foreigner often in my own country and always in someone else’s.
I travel the broad streets, and the narrow alleyways and the paved ways and the cobbled paths and the foresty paths and the dirt and dung frosted paths even in my sleep. My body is stamped with purple triangles, encased with dates and airline names that the airport officers corrupted me with, thinking it was glamorous for me to be travelling the world. Luggage tags are clipped and tagged on my limbs as I speak now, and they pierce my wheat skin.
I drift my Visa body through their beer chugging and the hijab clad girls who smoke weed by the river, getting stoned on eachother, watching me with their boiling eyes- the common foreign freak with her headphones and ticketed body rushes against the throng of locals. I am neither the foreigner, nor am I the rooted local- my abode remains anonymous.
In this city I trip over inhuman humans who stride with tattooed backs and bearded faces and grizzly manes. I latch on to whomever I think looks like a Messiah, their Jesus faces illuminating my common face and drink their wrinkled veins dry like the Vampiress that I am without them knowing, crediting their mediocre black and white photographs for my delirium. Brown eyed Moses. Bearded Adam. I see you everywhere- his brows wrinkled amusingly as he talks to God on that hill nearby. I am an amoeba now, and I infiltrate the blood of those who know me not with a curious disease. Dengue. Bird Flu. Malaria. I am all these and more- hovering about them like an invisible mosquito.
I waver in limbo between the spiced dimensions of this city, sucking the platelets from their reddened bodies out of sick revenge for my grandmother whose platelets were sucked out by some vile mosquito- my stamped Visa body only needs to slightly brush against theirs on a crowded rush hour train and I can write for days. I am the mosquito and I know the secret of the papaya leaves too.