The P Word

I had my first adulthood P word at the age of forty-three, 
Walking around in Birmingham – centre of city. 
I couldn’t quite believe it when the man said to me 
As we passed each other on the street, ‘Move it, Paki.’ 
Not that it was the first time I’d ever heard it, you see – 
Just that it was the first time it was thrown directly at me. 
(At least, from what I recall from sometimes faulty memory.) 
Why, so late in life, did this moment come to be, 
When I had spent all my years in this delightful country? 
Was it because of my newfound status as a hijabi? 
Because a headscarf had removed my religious ambiguity, 
And waved a flag like a red rag about my faith identity? 
See, for so long as a fair-skinned member of Indian society 
My background could be vague to strangers, remain a mystery, 
Letting me ride the privileged people’s train of common courtesy, 
Until a cloth made my otherness immediately clear to see. 
And although we never got anywhere near achieving equality, 
There was a short time when the haters didn’t feel so free 
To spit out what was on their minds and tongues so openly, 
Confident their actions would be consequence-free. 
So that’s why it was possible for years to pass in relative safety, 
But then the world changed from what it used to be, 
And when I changed to hijab-wearer, it turned its hate-filled eyes on me. 
And that is the story of how it came to be 
That I had hurled at me 
So belatedly 
My first on-street ‘Paki’
At the age of forty-three.