Twenty-seven years across the ocean,
a nest built, a family grown,
yet something in me whispers —
you do not belong here.
Political winds blow cold some days,
racism cuts through what I have built —
and I hear a soft whisper:
do I belong here at all?
I count the days until that flight —
a joy, a treat,
somewhere above the clouds, I feel
the slow return of something known.
Heart quickening as Chennai glitters below —
the rush to find who waits outside,
a coffee cup warm in my hands.
Stray dogs, and cows, and winding roads,
the beautiful, beloved noise,
the dust, the lights, the smell of rain —
how small a thing can hold such joy.
Home-cooked meals and open arms.
The heart, for a while, exhales.
And then the bags are packed again,
the goodbye hugs held a little longer —
two worlds I love, two places I grieve,
forever searching for where I belong.
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