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India is like an ocean

that when still

forces me

to face my self

 

and when turbulent

crushes me with

a heaving humanity

that leaves me screaming

for solitude.

 

She is in more than

bangles and street cries,

henna and dancing,

she is like new moons

 

hidden behind a thousand veils

aware and pure

in grinding corn

and heavy water jug.

 

Poured out in chants of honey

her aroma of mercy

nourishes into sprouts

that bud to blossoms of sunlight.

 

My India does not just speak.

Her voice dances

in strains of sitar

draped in sari.

She is like a lover,

who excites you with a glance

and spurns you

back across the waves.

 

A mother

who feeds my soul

and scorns my

grasping for wind

 

and like a sister

she laughs at my fantasies,

beside me still

raises me when I fall.

 

She is a friend

who leads my soul

back to myself

and there I see truth

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