(18/8/1947 / Aberdeen)

Immigrant

I can't imagine dying in this land.
The neighbours here have doors graffiti-red
‘Why are you brown? ' another pupil asked
‘I think because my folks are brown, ' I said

Out on our landing, someone's dumped a bed
I dream in Hindi. I don't understand
The baby words in English in my school book
At games, or dancing, no one takes my hand

I miss the smells of curry, frangipani,
The steaming chai at Delhi's teeming stalls
The cooking fires. I even miss the sewers
The thieving monkeys with their chattering calls

I miss the temple incense, the bright saris
In this new country, ma wears layers of coats
I miss the beggars, hawkers, the snake charmers
The rickshaws and the tattered rupee notes

You won't have seen a cripple on a skateboard
Or a blind boy, with both his eyes gouged out
That's what it feels to leave behind your country
A picture with the best bits scissored out

User Rating: 4,7 / 5 ( 14 votes ) 34

Comments (34)

this is amazing & great write..
You won't have seen a cripple on a skateboard Or a blind boy, with both his eyes gouged out really a great writing great 10++
Wow Sheena! You have captured the essence of diaspora.
Beautiful lines. Wonderful poem. An Indian in mind.
The thieving monkeys with their chattering calls...great line.
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