Pillowtalk

The pillow talked to me through the night.

It said that it liked soft faces -
full of petty lies
and fragile, dreamy hair.

The problem with pillows is that they are full of fluff.
They are like middle-aged woman -
asexual cotton-bags, over-prized sacks of lethargy.

Of course, I only thought this to myself, and sighed aloud,
"I need a replacement," and I meant, I needed a silent pillow.
It agreed, conjuring an image, announcing, "an American one."

It continued, "I hate the coconut oil stains,
plus your South Indians always smell of Fair n Lovely;
North Indians of Ponds or Charmis, and Dabur Amla Oil."

"The Chinese and Korean breath rinks of beef and pork,
Middle Eastern, except belly dancers, are too exotic
and the Europeans use their foreign tongue too much."

I cut its monologue short, accusing it of racial discrimination.
I reminded it of its roots. The cover was Bangladeshi, cotton Indian,
and it came packaged in polyethene bags imported from China.

Just one travel across seven seas, and a position of privilege,
had converted it. It wanted to dust off the past, and wear the skin
of an alien sensibility; edging to extreme, to prove itself reinvented.

My head, heavy with thoughts and Indian spice, crushed it,
and grumbled into its wrinkling face. "Who was it talking about?"
I groaned. "Maybe my promiscuity. Maybe my alienation?"

We resent them the most who are an image of us, don't we?
And aren't they the ones that we find most easy to befriend?
The pillow warmed up to me, my compunctions sunk into sleep.