Foreword: I have written about how my Indian and American identities have shaped who I am as a person today. Those influences are largely positive. However, there are moments when walking the line between these two worlds is unduly painful and especially difficult. This is one of those moments. The most important idea I am trying to communicate is the nostalgia children of immigrants can feel for a home or family member they just barely know. That nostalgia is accompanied by this feeling of not being able to fully belong in America. To that end, the poem flashes back between my life in the United States and a singular memory with my grandmother.
The Terrific Torment of Two
Exhale
As my breath flowed out, I could tell it was lighter than the humid air that enveloped me
The effect?
A surreal feeling-as I was floating a few inches above the ground
I look down and watched my toes dig into the earth beneath me
The sand easily gave way as my feet sunk in further, providing no explanation for the lightness I felt
But my ignorance was bliss
I raised my face and smiled-welcoming the sun’s warmth
Its rays tugging at the edges of my lips endearingly
Gently coaxing a wider smile
I beamed back with an equally radiant euphoria and peace
From the distance, a voice calls my name
An elderly woman carrying a straw basket full of fresh methi leaves
From under her soft blue dupatta, her warm eyes beckon me forward
Inhale
Complying, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other to get to the front of the room
Meanwhile, my stomach does somersaults
I fix my gaze on the bright fluorescent lights overhead
As my teacher stumbles through my first and last name
Coffee stained teeth framed by garishly pink-painted lips send me back to my seat
As soon as I sit down, a crumpled piece of paper is tossed to my side of the desk
I reach for it without hesitation
An innocent inquiry about the intricate henna decorating my palms…
I swelled with pride, grateful for the curiosity
My questions about the origin of the note are answered by an eruption of muffled laughter from a nearby table
One girl catches my eye and snears,
“Why would you scribble on your hands with marker like that”
And a flood crashes over me
All at once, that note carried an invitation to belong and a subtle reminder of my current isolation
I am an outsider
A disapproving hush brings everyone’s rapt attention to the front of the room
But before long, the words on the board blur out of focus
And I’m watching perfectly mechanical manicured hands move like clockwork
Inhale
In the air is a distinct hint of jasmine and the methi leaves I was holding
Her fingers danced
As they quickly threaded through the bunches of leaves
Easily pulling them from their stems
I am mesmerized by the beauty in the simplicity
Her nails are bare and the skin on her hands is adorned by a myriad of wrinkles
Her hands painted wisdom with each movement-free from the bounds of time
Simple yet elegant
One hand reaches towards mine and lifts up my chin adoringly
Her eyes look into mine for answers
But I didn’t know how to put into words that
For a moment I feel so absolutely secure- like I’m sitting beside a wise willow tree
Tall enough to shade me from the sun and strong enough to protect me from any storm
I turn my head towards the sky again
Suddenly, the sun is nowhere to be seen
And clouds litter the horizon
Exhale
I watch my breath form a plume of water vapor in front of me
The dark clouds send down flurries in a torrent
We rush inside, letting the screen door slam behind us
Nothing is out of the ordinary:
A blaring TV, the smell of spices from the kitchen, the laundry machine whirring away
But, something was wrong
As if to confirm my suspicions,
The rice on the stove boils over
A mistake my ever so attentive mother wouldn’t dream of committing
My feet guide me to the living room
My backpack still resting on my shoulders
They wear poker faces but the anguish in their eyes is deafening
And
I am running
I run until there’s no more land and icy water hits my feet
My breathing is heavy
Exhale
Inhale
Exhale
Inhale
But my feet stay grounded
And the old woman in my memories
The woman I was just beginning to know
Is lost in time and some 8082 miles
Edit: On August 14th, 2021, this poem has been edited for grammatical purposes.