my roots.

there are days when i hold my roots with pride–they emanate from the golden, bejeweled shalwar kameez and frocks i wear, from the scent of biryani and chicken korma that lingers through khalas and chachas and cousins and sisters seated for dinner.

and then there are days when I yearn to rip those clothes from my skin, dig deep with my nails so my grandparents’ war, my people’s toil, the beat of wedding drums in my father’s village, and the dirt from a land I call ‘back home’…. bleed out.

they say that we hate our roots when we criticize some of their deepest held traditions and beliefs and adages…they don’t know that we are the first ones to defend it before the white man vilifies it with his senseless tongue. they don”t know how our mind tires of exhaustion from responding to every attack of our brown skin, of our God, of our very existence.

because it is our honor. just as it is yours.





They lay over the top of the wooden fence

i can smell

their sweet, soft scent

from below.

droplets of rain,

like clear glass,

adorn their

complex curvatures

A ray of sunlight

flows through the clouded skies

and reflects their hue

of crimson red.


if you try to put fear into me


if you try to put fear into me,

you will fail.

for the blood that flows

within the essence of my soul

is that of my parents,

who left their childhood

their kinship

their home,

to come to a foreign land

where, to this day,

they are still deemed the Other;


for their children,

who were yet to be born