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On Chai, Jhumka's and Pashmina Shawls 

When I close my eyes, 

I can see them,

Images and visions, 

They’re fragmented, but they’re there. 

Some are hazy, blurring into what is almost 

a beautiful kaleidoscope of nothingness. 

Memories, that were once lived, hazy, 

pixels of fading color. 

Others, are slower, more vivid, 

every detail jumps out, 

I feel like I've been transported, far, far away, 

Going back, to live them. 

I can see the Warm, spring afternoons, 

Spent lazing in the garden, 

The sun caressing my olive skin, making it deeper, 

The cool residue of the winter breeze, bursting in alternate waves, 

Helping the small beads of sweat dry up. 

My back, resting on the green, very green blades of grass,

Absorbing the remaining traces of the morning dew. 

Rare, but right between the changing seasons;

Between the 'too cold', transitions and the 'sweltering summer', 

This, equilibrium , is but a moment

A single moment of bliss, that will soon, disappear. 

As the rays catch my eyes, 

I hide in the shade of the yellow canopy over my head, 

Amaltas, that’s what we call the trees of yellow, 

paper thin petals that seem to engulf the entire city at this time. 

I've never bothered to find out, what they are called in English. 

Perhaps, I don’t really need to, in English, they wouldn’t feel the same. 

They don't have amaltas here, I don’t need to know the translation, anyway. 

I'm thinking of Mangos, eaten with bare hands, 

Nimble fingers holding tight, digging into the pulpy centre, 

Unfraid of making a mess, 

Lips, corners of her tiny mouth, cheeks, and finger tips, 

Everywhere, the sweet, sweet taste, of summer, 

The taste of home, it lingers. 

It's this home, that lives inside of me, 

Inside of every vein, and nerve, and breathe

It's this home, that I carry, everywhere I go. 

Echoes of which I live, screaming out to me, 

In my daily cup of chai (latte), 

The reason why I'm always wearing paisley cotton wide legged pants (pajamas),  

Even though, they offer no protection from the scottish wind and hail

The earrings that sound whenever I take a breathe, they’re called (jhumkas) 

It is this home, that I hold close to my heart, 

when I wrap my mum's pashmina shawl around my neck, 

Running my fingers over the finely embroidered corners, 

Over and over again, 

Searching, searching, searching, 

Am I searching for home?

I don’t think I’m searching. 

I may have been saying this all wrong. 

I know where home is, though fragmented. 

I’m not searching, but holding on to it, in every decision I make.

I am holding onto where I’ve come from, because I don’t want it to slip away. 

When I close my eyes, 

I can see them, 

Images and visions, 

They’re fragmented, but they’re there

(embroidery on a pashmina shawl, roadside chai on a cold winter morning, bouganvillae plant)

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