Blog by By Bhavi Ram

The line was drawn, a hasty stroke of pen,
He became a stranger, in his own land.

From Sindh to soil that shifted in the night,
He carried memories, in a fading light.

Taking nothing with him,
He sowed new seeds where old roots couldn’t hold.

Over the years his children asked and pestered,
He whispered, his story, which was never told.

Of mango groves, of riverbanks so wide,
A palatial home, where his heart still resides.

And I, his blood, born on this altered shore,
Being told this land is mine, and nothing more.

But in the mirror, in my searching eyes,
I see his journey, and his veiled goodbyes.

I am a mosaic with fragments of old and new,
A piece of them, a part of me, an Inert view.

I visualize two suns, two different shades of sky,
An immigrant here, beneath my country’s eye.

They ask me where I’m from, a simple ask,
But every answer holds a history.

For a home can be a place, or just a name,
And I am living in that sacred flame.