Ten years of decayed love
float in her eyes. She looks
at me like time were still.
Her shoulder blade like an
ivory sword cutting, hurting.
I tell her to take care, look
beautiful again, first love
of my life, my wife, mother
of my sons. We exchange
bitter words without passion.
I turn home a sad dreamless
man - she breathes reconciliation
dares not say we be together
again but her eyes do - she
knows I hear too. Maybe she
does nothing and I cue wrong.
We both wish for time to wrap
on itself, give us back a decade
An expat desi friend and I were discussing what it means to return to India when you have cobbled together a life in a foreign country no matter how flawed and imperfect. We have both spent over a decade outside India and have kids who were born abroad and have spent very little time back home. Returning "home" is something a lot of new immigrants like L and myself think about. We want very much for that to be an option because a full assimilation into our country of domicile is likely never going to happen. L has visited India more often than I have and has a much better pulse on what's going on there. For me the strongest drag force working against my desire to return home is my experience of life as a woman in India. I neither want to live that suffocatingly sheltered existence myself nor subject J to it. The freedom, independence and safety I have had in here in suburban America was not even something I knew I could expect to have in India. I never knew what it felt t...
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SriPriya