Acquired
By Anahita Kaman

The Victoria and Albert Museum has the largest collection of Indian textiles in the world. More than 10,000 pieces, from the simplest weaves that dress poor farmers to lavish embroidered silks worn by Mughal emperors and maharajas… many of the pieces on display have never been shown since they were acquired in the 19th and 20th centuries. — The New York Times

Evil lies in the boot of the White man’s leather
demanding for admission. How can He demand
admission from the daughter of His Violence?
Silence is rewarded— I know this well— so I paste my lips
with glued rice from lunch,
				                    Made in India.
Fairness in all-fair marble, ivory from tusks
that prod at the walls of the British Empire
lazing in the Great Entry Hall. My skin
promises that I am the tourist, but my blood’s
memory recognises this glory—
life so old that I feel it writhing 
in the rot of Kellett School.
				                    I drift into halls
as if it is happenstance, accident, manic
-pixie-dream-girl freedom to whimsy. Pretending
or forgetting is not so easy when there are fibres
that weave their fingers to my bone.
I resist as if I have a choice. There is no beauty
in this room.
				                    Textiles of India
boasts beholders with global perspectives, curators
who so carelessly crushed canvas under the bodies
of its makers. Broken fingers cry from golden string—
there are claw marks in storied silk. Gentle violin strings,
oblivious to the guts of Indian farmers forced
into classical submission, play over loudspeakers
but drown under the ever-beating pulse
of British Ambition. Blood is red
				                    I am certain of it.
The silvers are from the temple in my hometown.
My grandmother loved to weave at the foot
of her mother, gathering her hair for thread glossed
with ancient oils now pimped
in Jo Malone candles.
				                    Perhaps she is here,
in tapestry that did not burn with the homes
or starve with her sisters. How cold she must be
in these ivory halls, under the White Man’s boot.
How easily her restless soul was acquired,
how ductile her story in thread.

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Anahita Kaman (she/they) is a writer living in Chicago, IL. She grew up in the beehive that is Hong Kong, but traces her origins to the honeyed skies above South Asia. When she is not writing, she is planning a themed party or crafting with tarsal claws. Read more of her work here.

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Artwork Source: Silk textile from the Stein Collection. V&A Owned Content.