The Census

Today I got a call from Assam
From my 85 year-old sister in law, the oldest of us boumas
Bolo toh Ranu, morba biya hoil kun shunot ?
When did I cross this threshold?
I don’t know Didi I came years after you
But why are you asking?
It is not me, dear, it’s those men. The census people
So many questions they have:
“How long have you lived here? Is this land yours? You are a member of this rajbari ? Do you have identity proof?”
Impertinence! But how do I tell them – all these things?
Our father-in-law, in those days
Would not let us go out of the gate without an escort
We did not look around; we did not see the bazaar pro-per-ly
Things were brought to us.
Within these walls, I have spent seventy years
Is that enough to count?
I forget my mother’s house, except for the leaves
Of the Nahar that grew at the garden door
The sweets that were brought home, the day I was betrothed
Now, it will all go down in paper
As though it is some underground group
And not a household
If only they would ask me something I know
Like the weaves of this diverse land
Where every bend in the river, means a new tribe, a new pattern
I know them all Mishmi to Apatani . Monpa to Wanchoo
The seven sisters? Na re!
If you ask me, we are seven times that
In this tapestry, all are ours. We are everybody’s
And we all belong here, in equal measure