2. harris park
you can find delhi in sydney

           on wigram street at night

in the blinking red, green & yellow lights

repurposed from christmas sales into

a perpetual semblance of diwali, minus

the fragrant ghee diyas & the smoky,

tar-bitter stench of fireworks

that would violate fire restrictions here.

perfumed sweat wafts from

                        the open food stalls.

chunnis & churis flutter & tinkle

& plump-armed toddlers clad

in kurtas tug demandingly at older siblings

on iphones with australian accents. hot pink

lipstick & sequined

                         faux silk. everything from

conservative, shin-length kameezzes

           to risqué backless blouses, aunties

& uncles tutting chastisingly at the youngsters.

       phone ko neeche rakho. khao, khao.
in the wine-red light

     of a fading neon sign are

pitted walls hued purple & sweating like flesh,

          the smell of burnt grease & sugar

thick as molasses in the air. jalebis deep-frying

in cast-iron cauldrons & seekh kebabs sizzling

in preparation for eid. there is laughter

in the breaking of fasts, in muslim

      greetings on hindu tongues

& vice-versa. a heavyset man

with sharp eyes & damp patches

under his armpits turns & turns

the spit, the fat popping & leaping

from halal meat. beside him his son,

     pimple-cheeked & awkward,

nonetheless manages a machine-like speed

in his automatic, ten-golgappas-a-minute

dishing out of soggy paper plates of pani puri

to a line of customers stretching

around the block. in the smoke-scented night,

the masjid of harris park

             is a silhouette half-hidden

     by electric rooftops.
         yellowing posters of

bollywood romances

           chaste near-kisses

line the windows of a video shop

that also, inexplicably, stocks

miniature god figurines, clocks,

& sweets in dented, oily

cardboard boxes. sugar syrup congeals

           & sticks the barfis

to the bottom. we pick at them

   as we walk to our cars, parked haphazardly

in dim side streets, plastic bags

        full of leftovers & pirated hindi dvds

swinging against our legs. we indian

australians have not forgotten where we came from;

we have woven

           ourselves like flowers into the garland

                                  of sydney’s sights & sounds:

           bright, perfumed, bruised, stubborn.
translations

diya: an uncovered oil or ghee lamp in a tiny clay container

chunni: a long scarf worn by many Indian women

churi: a glass bangle

kurta: a long tunic

kameez: a type of kurta generally worn by girls & women

phone ko neeche rakho: put the phone down

khao, khao: eat, eat

jalebi: a deep-fried sweet snack shaped like an orange spiral

seekh kebab: a cylindrical meat kebab prepared on a spit

golgappas: round, hollow dough balls deep-fried & often filled with mashed potato

pani puri: a spicy snack combining golgappas with a water-thin, sour, hot sauce

masjid: mosque

barfi: a rectangular or triangular sweet made of various ingredients, such as pistachio or milk solids