Mona Dash, "Map of the Self"

Mona Dash is an award-winning author based in London. Her work includes her memoir A Roll of the Dice, a short story collection Let Us Look Elsewhere, a novel Untamed Heart and two collections of poetry, A Certain Way and Dawn Drops. She has been published in various journals and more than thirty-five anthologies. Her short stories have been listed in leading competitions such as Asian Writer (winner), Bath, Bristol, Fish, to name a few. She has been shortlisted, and more than once, in various literary awards such as Eastern Eye ACTA, SI Leeds Literary award, Eyelands Literary Award (winner for Roll of the Dice), Tagore Literary Prize and Novel London.  Her short story "Twenty-five years" was presented on BBC Radio 4 and the title story of Let Us Look Elsewhere was included in Best British Short Stories 22. She also works as a business leader in AI for a global tech company. More details on her website here and you can also follow her on Instagram at @monadash_ 

Map of the Self is her newly published collection of poetry.

About Map of the Self, by Mona Dash
Map of the Self is a poetic atlas for anyone seeking home — within and beyond themselves.

In this new collection of poems, Mona Dash traces the intricate landscapes of identity, belonging, and human connection. She explores memory, language, and the shifting borders of selfhood and then explores how the self is shaped and reshaped in relation to others: in love and loss, in intimacy and estrangement, in family and society.

Whether navigating the dislocations of diaspora or the quiet revelations of everyday life, Dash writes with a voice that is both intimate and expansive. She invites the reader to walk alongside her, to pause at key moments along the way, and perhaps to reimagine parts of their own story.

You can read more about Map of the Self on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read three sample poems from the collection. 

From Map of the Self

Implications

Born and raised an Indian; not living in India
                                                 implied: not Indian
 

now British, not born in Britain 
                                                 implied: not British
a mother, working full-time
                                                 implied: not a mother
a sales manager, a mother 
                                                 implied: not a sales manager
a woman, a mother
                                                 implied: not a woman
an engineer, a poet
                                                 implied: not an engineer
 
In becoming more than I was meant to
                                                 implied: a sense of erosion
Venn-diagram like I seek 
                                                 implied: commonalities 
finding intersectionality 
                                                 implied: a pinpoint

 
Turmeric

On shop shelves, flavours of peach and turmeric, in little Kefir shots
Cranberry seeds and turmeric, masks and masques in recyclable pots
           Some love yellow milk, drink an aphrodisiac in a tall glass
           steam fish soft in thin gravy, liquid gold on shining white rice
 
Turmeric tastes on the tongue, lingering in infinite swirls
like Jazz, Renaissance, the Beat, a turmeric rage grows 
           in homes, health shops, the patents, the recipes, lotions
           on skin everywhere, in all its fine avatars

But I remember it on my mother’s fingers, her tiny nails
bitten to the quick, haldi, turmeric stains on the nail bed and folds
           from mixing fish-heads, pumpkin flowers with turmeric
           Yellow stains left on handles and plates and clothes

like on this scarf, her fingertips, yellow dots, from far-away home.
 

Drown

You didn’t say a thing.
You didn’t do a thing.
Those curious eyes watched.
Not sure why,
not sure what they thought.

I drowned. I struggled. 
Thrashing as the water rose
in waves and whirlpools
I sank, you watched
You who had said, water
fall in, feel it, let go!
I did,
And you let me down.

The moon, your friend, is glistening low
It doesn’t let me see the shore
But somewhere a lighthouse glows
Surely it will carry me through to morning
When at last the daylight shows.