It Was Just A Time But I Was In It

Other days, I wear a bindi. Red, like the gods demand. Like blood, or beauty, or both. The aunties at the table narrow their eyes. One calls me confused. I smile like I understand Tamil poorly, which is half-true. She doesn’t know I used to mouth Tiruppavai with Panti every December, curled on the cold floor, dreaming of Perumal and girls who looked like fire.

I don’t tell her that the gods speak to me in all genders and none.

I learned about Käla — not just time, but time with teeth — when I was seven, during Panguni Uthiram. The priest, mouth full of ritual and rice, warned the crowd about impermanence. He said kälam is the breath of Shiva, the whisper of endings. I imagined it slithering under my skin like shadow, like truth. Later, Panti whispered, “Don’t worry. Our people know how to outlive death.” She didn’t say what happened if death lived in you.

I was not confused. I was becoming.