The Migrant

The Migrant and the Lost Identity

Merely a week had passed since I had settled in the USA

Apart from monetary gains and a better future

There was no apparent reason in leaving India

And yet, I had moved to this godforsaken place

An unknown land, an eccentric social culture

Queer people and a yet stranger and artificial language

It was as if I walked a lonely road in an alien world

The anonymity was getting on my nerves

I wanted something, in fact anything, from India

Yearned to talk with one of my own folks, my people

People who spoke in Hindi, and were Hindustani

And then, I saw her, she was out for an evening stroll,

Wearing a sari, bindi on forehead, and loads of bangles!

She was a desi girl, I fist pumped the air in joy,

At last I had found someone who was a stranger too in

This world but far more than a friend to me.

I walked faster, towards her, elated and revived

I just wanted to talk to her, hours at a stretch in my tongue

She saw me muttering to myself and smiled.

And said, “Ditcha sey sumthin? Din catch you am fraid”

I stood rooted to the spot. She was an Indian, damn it!

She understood, and said in a nonchalant way.

“Ah, I guess you laughin at my clothing, eh cheeky toad?

It’s my mom, makes me wear this rubbish, its Indian.

Pretty embarrassing and uhmmm not fashionable uh?

Its ohk buddy, am used to it. See ya, take care”

She was an Indian, or at least her parents were

But her heart beat for this foreign place, America

I walked back to my house, depressed and gloomy.

Migrants tend to lose their identity

It’s the only thing that distinguishes them from others

Yet they overlook it and hero-worship their new country

By changing themselves, they become a stain

A stain upon the splendor and grandeur of their motherland

Me? I wouldn’t let this happen to me! Betcha!

                                                                                           By Kaartikeya Bajpai