You were Summer

Like cotton candy melting away

on our tongues,

and the smell of orange peels;

like the smooth shells

that lined the beach,

and lemonade;

like the carpet of dogwood petals

coating the garden,

and sun showers,

you were summer.

But summer days fade

as the seasons change,

and the night finds its way

home.

And as the shadows of autumn

settle in,

I watch as the candle

that once burned bright

begins to flicker,

threatened by the passing

of chilly breezes.

I know the flame will only live

for so long,

before it vanishes

into the cold darkness,

leaving nothing

but a spiraling trail of smoke

as I shiver,

praying for the warmth

of those summer nights.

The Woman in the Sand

The translator told me that her name was Naina.

As I smiled at her, I realized that her name was quite fitting because her eyes pierced right through me as I quickly lowered my gaze.

Perhaps something inside of me did not want to see the pain.

She couldn’t have been more than thirty, but there were lines etched into her deep caramel skin, and I knew that each one told a story. Age had snatched her youth away quickly, and grief seemed to have settled into the creases that were mostly around the corners of her eyes. A few of them gave rise to a furrowed brow; there was an intent look about her.

She was carrying a large pot above her head, and I wondered why she was out here by herself. Perhaps she was lost as well.

I asked her, in broken Hindi, if she had family.

Her eyes pierced through me once again, but this time I held my gaze. I wanted to see the depths of her pain, to understand the ache that I couldn’t possibly ever know, to feel real empathy for just a moment.

She said something incomprehensible, but I was more focused on the sound of her voice; it was soft and breath-like.

The translator looked confused, and then told me that her family was in the sands.

I looked around, at the hills of sand that coated the earth for miles. There was no one in sight.

She smiled slightly, and the lines around her eyes deepened. They were all saying something that I could not hear but desperately wanted to. She grabbed at the earth, lifting grains of sand into the air and releasing them as they were caught by the wind and blew around her body, which was wrapped in a dark red shawl.

I wondered who they were and how they had died. I wondered how she had found the strength to move on alone.

There were so many questions that I wanted to ask her, but her presence had made me numb. I didn’t know this woman, and yet something inside of me shattered.

The translator asked the woman something and she pointed towards one of the ridges in the sand.

“Let’s move,” said one of the cameramen, and the crew began to walk away. I followed.

When I turned back, the woman who had given us directions was just a spec in the desert, another grain lost in the sand dunes, blurred by the heat in the air, drowned out by the voices of the wind. I closed my eyes and prayed that she would find her way home. 


(The images in the post are self-portraits. I recently began experimenting with photography as another form of art; I would love feedback!)

The Mess I Am

Baby,

I can’t tell you what a mess I am;

what a lovely, impossible mess I am,

and yet somehow

you love me

irrespective of myself.

I can’t imagine why

or how

you’d ever want me

the way you do

because I’m like

lipstick on a glass,

and rain on a perfect day,

like that kind of pain

that never fades away

I’m like soap slipping

out of your hands,

like castles in the sand,

I’ll fall apart

with shatters of my heart,

and yet you don’t run away.

And I can’t imagine why,

you claim you don’t even try

to love me

the way you do;

I am blessed to have you

in my life

because in your eyes

I am beautiful

even though I tell you what a mess I am

what a lovely, impossible mess I am.

The Lioness Mane

Mine is thin 

and feels like silk

and it is beautiful

when a breeze sweeps it up

and blows it around my silhouette

like ribbons twirling and dancing.

My sister’s is rough and thick

and spirals in a long braid

which winds down her spine

to her knees

and swings side to side

with every step.

I still remember when mama

would brush our hair

when we were little girls

and weave long braids

and kiss us on the foreheads

and tell us we were beautiful,

that our hair was beautiful,

that is was a gift from God.

I would always be mesmerized

by how glamorous she looked

with her black hair down,

dripping water,

and wondered why

she would always tie it

into a tight bun

when it dried,

until I started doing the same

because it just looked cleaner that way.

But now I wonder

if hair was ever meant to be obedient;

why not just let it grow free and untamed?

Because I know my Guru

saw me

like a lioness

with a long wild mane

that flies as the wind carries it about

untouched by anything

but Mother Nature

Sometimes I wear my dark mane out

and close my eyes

and feel it whirling around me

playing with the air

that carries the dust

of all my ancestors

that gave their lives

to protect this gift from God,

so that one day
I could be a princess,
with my dark long hair
as my crown.

And at those times

I can feel

the lioness

that hides

deep inside my soul

and I can’t help but wish I were stronger.

There are only three truths in life.

Lately, I’ve become a slave of logic.

It’s fascinating because it breaks everything down – all complex things become simple if-then statements. It is sensible; it is straightforward.

And lately, I’ve been wondering how truth fits into the whole scheme of everything. What is truth? Because what we often take as fact is usually just a combination of other facts; if you really dig deep and break them all down, everything collapses into nothingness. There are almost no facts; there is almost no truth.

Conclusion #1: The only truth I know is that I am alive.

I know this because I can see, taste, breathe, and think, and create. I know this because I can feel joy and pain. I know this because I can love and hurt. But these things cannot be explained. I know them to be true because all the systems in my body are working in such a way that I can feel these things. Therefore, that must mean that I am alive.

Conclusion #2: If I am alive, then I was born.

Conclusion #3: If I was born, then I will die.

That’s it. Those are all the truths I know.

It’s kind of scary how logic boils down to these three truths.

I was born. I am alive. I will die.

Given these statements, life seems oddly simple considering how complex we always make it out to be. It’s like we were snapped into existence and one day we’ll be snapped out; on and off, with some time in between. That time in between is long enough to make something of it and short enough to waste away.

I feel like there’s a trick to it though. Maybe if we make something of our lives, something unbound by the tethers of death, it will continue to survive after we’re gone. And that way, even though we will die, some part of us won’t; some part of us will live on long after.

Five days ago, Steve Jobs, a brilliant man, passed away. He may have came to these conclusions early in life, because he spent his time creating and revolutionizing technology that ensured his legacy would live on long past his years on earth. Today, I’d like to commemorate his incredible life and leave you with something he once said:

“No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet, death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it, and that is how it should be, because death is very likely the single best invention of life. It's life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new...Almost everything–all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure–these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”

May we all learn to follow our hearts. ♥

The Forgotten Victims of 9/11

The morning of September 11, 2001 will always be etched in my memory. I remember the whispers of the teachers as they left their rooms to listen to the radio. I remember all of my classmates being picked up by their parents, each disappearing one by one. I remember my mom crying because my dad worked in downtown Manhattan and she couldn’t get in touch with him. I remember my dad telling me that he and his coworkers saw the second plane hit from their office window; I remember trying to imagine what he must have felt that day. But I couldn’t.

About 3000 innocent people died that day. Among them were heroes who knew they were walking to their deaths, and kept on walking. Today, I remember the victims of the 9/11.

Among them, I remember the forgotten victims of 9/11.

The horrific 9/11 tragedy did not end on that September morning in 2001. It did not end when all of the families found out if their loved ones were still alive. It did not end on May 2, 2011, when a team of US Navy SEALs found and killed Osama Bin Laden. No, the violence did not end there. The hatred did not end there.

Just four days after the attacks, a man in a pick-up truck pulled up to a gas station, pulled out a gun, and shot a man five times at point blank range in what seemed to be a safe suburb in Arizona.

The victim, Balbir Singh Sodhi, was an immigrant from India. He was a Sikh. Little did he know that more than 800 victims would follow him. And they would all be targeted for the color of their skin, or for their long beards, or for the turbans on their heads. Today, I remember those 800 people as victims of 9/11. No, they were not killed on that September morning in 2001. But their deaths were a result of the hatred and the ignorance that followed.

Today I remember the life of Avtar Singh, a Sikh truck driver that was shot and told to “Go back to where [he belonged].” Today I remember Rajinder Singh Khalsa, a Sikh man who was severely beaten unconscious outside a Queens restaurant, leaving him partially blind. Today, I remember the lives of the three Sikh cab drivers that were shot to death. Today I remember the life of an elderly Sikh man who was stabbed in the neck with a steak knife in front of his two-year-old granddaughter because some man “wanted to kill a Taliban.” Today, I remember the life of the Sikh man whose body was found floating in a canal. Today I remember the three-year-old Sikh girl who had a gasoline bomb thrown at her head through a window in her home. Today I remember the life of a Sikh woman who was attacked with a knife by men shouting, “this is what you get for what you’ve done to us.” Today, I remember all the victims of the hate crimes against innocent Sikhs that started after 9/11. There are many more stories like these.

More than 800 of them. More than 800 innocent people were attacked because they “looked like terrorists”. And the unfortunate thing is, these hate crimes are still continuing today.

In March of this year, two elderly Sikh men were gunned down in California.

The 9/11 tragedy did not end on that September day in 2001, nor did it end a week later, nor a month later. No, the tragedy is still continuing today.

So today, a moment of silence for the victims of 9/11. I pray for the families that lost their loved ones. I pray that this tragedy ends. I pray for peace. God Bless.

Do you remember what love feels like?

Thoughts of you are entangled

in the ribbons of my dreams;

they unravel in my sleep

but wide awake, all I see

is my reflection

in your eyes

We’ll never make it,

never ever make it,

but I can’t help but want to drown

into your arms

over and over

again

I remember

when you’d trace the lines

on my hands

with your fingertips

and whisper my destiny;

I wish you had told me then

that you weren’t written there

Because you are

in my every breath,

and all I need

is for you

to set me free

so we can find our way

home

Do you remember what love feels like?