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Insignificant Beginnings Before I was born, in a country that loves the sound of vowels, a sign: a holy man chanting, asking me to breathe well, breathe deep. My mother in her last trimester lies on wicker, fanning herself with a movie magazine. Swollen, dulled by my impending birth, she waits for dusk to soothe the raw scratch of day. Every sunset in front of Ganesh, ears ringing from bathwater, my father tries to will a daughter into being— my name comes sharp and silvered in his evening prayers. At least I have an origin I can name— small consolation for an insignificant beginning. But perhaps it is somewhere else in the world. In the margins of a medieval manuscript scribes prophesized • • •  • • • my birth. And among all the words of ancient and holy languages, there I am—in translation, my life spread out like stars in a slate-colored sky— so easy to read for those who know the calculations and where to look. • • •  • • • ...

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