Sometimes I think of kheer, the rice pudding and its coconut richness melting in my mouth at Kothri

Sometimes I think of a yellow saree clad woman with a toothless smile

Sometimes I think of a pond in a barren land

Sometimes I think of home.

Sometimes I think of what home is

In this homeless land without no hope

Sometimes I think of what hope is

And I wonder if humans need tangibility 

I wonder if definitions define us

If our scope is limited to the science and fiction of mind,

If we will ever move beyond

On nights like these I think of my mother’s flu inflected voice croaking through the phone

And I sit inside and hear the yelps of my intoxicated peers

I wonder how two worlds can coexist

If a person is capable of holding more than one land within his soul

I wonder if home means more than India and my mother’s scent to me

I wonder if America will ever mean more than just identity to me.

On nights like these I wonder if I will ever discover home

And I realize some questions are best understood lived.

I am living home, in this homeless country,

With a soul in this godless place

I am living in two worlds at once

And neither at the same time

I wonder if I will ever be the same again.


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About Ria Gandhi

“I really think I write about everyday life. I don't think I'm quite as odd as others say I am. Life is intrinsically, well, boring and dangerous at the same time. At any given moment the floor may open up. Of course, it almost never does; that's what makes it so boring.” ― Edward Gorey

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