Roots
Roots grow beneath the earth
Not seen but felt
The foundation of our fickle existence
Rests steady upon the pillars of the past
I taste india in the spices
Of my family’s home country
Hear the roar of urban life
Which triggers a tape recorder in my heart
Relays the comical barks of the rickshaw
Rippling through the dense closeness
Of 35 degree dog-days
I see it in the parchment lines of my Naniji’s skin
Smell it in the dhal and the roti cooking over an open flame in her kitchen
I taste it in the cardamom, that clings to clothes
Hear it in the hectic hisses of passing cars
Feel it in the cotton salwar hand-me-down
And in the hiccups of my heart beat