The smell of sandalwood and smoke/dark and cool metallic shadows as, familiar as an old friend/The taste of a half remembered prayer, spoken through fumbling lips/Joining the strong chant surrounding me/Low whispers from papery mouths/Ancient and irreverent to all but this moment/The joy in the return/Regret and relief mingling in guilty goodbyes/Laughing and teasing, jokes and Parsi Bol/Daal chaval and dhandar patio and sali murgi/Hello to old neighbors, forgotten family members, college acquaintances/Paying respects all the same/Gossip in the kitchen, uproar at the table, and all gathered round yelling at the TV by nightfall/We’re not so different/We’re not so alone/But if everyone sees what they look for/Who am I to pick at that bone?/Bright sharp eyes/That can explode every flaw with just one look/Gentle hands that can slip lemongrass and honey into chai and spill not a drop/Furious minds that make the choices they can and absorb details and ink like sugar in milk/We were all "Wallas" once, hailing from Gujarat in our gara saris with jolly, unfiltered words/Eyes deepened by suffering yet left unclouded by it/We were all Persians once, the empire made great by our achievements/We were all that we still are, only spread throughout the world/Our bowl of milk is bigger now/
Yet we spill no drops/But still sweeten all around us. MAYA C. JOSHI
Louisville, Kentucky, USA
neecyjoshi@gmail.com