blue stone onam
And so it was, Sunday afternoon

stoned walking aimless, blue sky

and yellow sun falling over

a Presbyterian church I’d never

seen before. A couple with a pram

dressed King of Trainers, conservative

like bald men shouting Hail Marys

down King St. Like influencer selfies,

or the woman next to you at the cafe

who shrieks suddenly, laughing. I

averted my eyes, not wanting to

stare or cause them discomfort.
It was a funny time to be trans

with a Christian. My new friend and I

got coffee at the old Greek cafe

where cakes sit behind shiny glass.

She took a photo of her cappuccino

then asked what I was doing this

weekend. Maintenance. She would

visit a new church, the one next to

the station. I could remember faces

of the buildings, but never entered.

Told her, My mum was raised devout

but broke away, raised me without

religion, passing the old Magistrates.

I thought about what to tell her, what

could be shared in the space between

us; what might shock her or just

go over her head, be misunderstood.

After all, it wasn’t her first language –

it was maybe her third or fourth.

She had designed buildings for Saudis,

finished college in Kerala. I suppose

this was ordinary to someone else

but to me it was still so new. I asked

simple questions, What’s that like?

Tell me about…  What did you do then?

I had spent my life struggling with friends

who found communicating confusing

sometimes. I noticed people connecting

with me were torn between different

identities. Another colleague and friend

had grown up between East and West,

just now understanding how strongly

it impacted her as a child. One thousand

stories join in my mind, as we walked

alongside the old Melbourne gaol. Heavy

stone bricks and groups of tourists, back
into the clammer of festivities; golden saris,

rainbow rice pookkalam, tessellating prayers

of rolling Desi girls. A dancer balanced on

a copper plate, her ankle bells ringing out as

she shuffled here and there. Another dancer

leaned over to explain to me the pageantries:

how a generous king made a god so jealous,

he stomped the king down into a nether realm.

Now he returns once a year, bringing peace,

bringing harvest. I told her, I’m grateful to

take part in such culture and tradition – we

don’t have much of that here. I imagined
visiting a queer club together. It’d be late

for starters – that alone could put her off.

The techno would sweat loudly. I doubt

she’d tried drugs before. Like a heathen

I felt, like bad propaganda about Western

homosexuals corrupting our children. But

that was the muck where I found myself first

I wanted to share with love. Suppressed,

uncertain how to open up appropriately

when the fruits of this life were strange,

taboo. Still, it was my nature to be polite,

taking pride in how I comfort strangers.
Her shoulders afloat in a strapless sundress

and I in a borrowed kurta, block-printed

with leaves of turquoise, green and pink

blossoms. We glowed like flowers. I was

a little nervous, assuming others stared

but here you were being kind, being gentle.

I wondered if that was your Christian side

or if that was a little reductive. We cheered

together as lines of men and women swung

in choreographed ecstasy synchronised to

Malayalam pop hits, crowd singing along.

The sky was blue, the sun quite warm.