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Minority
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Imtiaz Dharker
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Minority I was born a foreigner. I carried on from there to become a foreigner everywhere I went, even in the place planted with my relatives, six-foot tubers sprouting roots, their fingers and faces pushing up new shoots of maize and sugar cane. All kinds of places and groups of people who have an admirable history would, almost certainly, distance themselves from me. I don’t fit, like a clumsily translated poem; likе food cooked in milk of coconut where you еxpected ghee or cream, the unexpected aftertaste of cardamom or neem. There’s always that point where the language flips into an unfamiliar taste; where words tumble over a cunning tripwire on the tongue; where the frame slips, the reception of an image not quite tuned, ghost-outlined, that signals, in their midst, an alien. And so I scratch, scratch through the night, at this growing scab on black and white. Everyone has the right to infiltrate a piece of paper. A page doesn’t fight back. And, who knows, these lines may scratch their way into your head – through all the chatter of community, family, clattering spoons, children being fed – immigrate into your bed, squat in your home, and in a corner, eat your bread, until, one day, you meet the stranger sliding down your street, realise you know the face simplified to bone, look into its outcast eyes and recognise it as your own.
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