Meera Klein
Somewhere over the blue Pacific, I lost my Indian accent
it tumbled out of me into the crashing surf
I was born again
as a true American,
a California girl.
Grey coastal fog, fields of strawberries and freeway traffic
welcomed me into the melting pot
of American life.
Carving Halloween pumpkins,
baking Thanksgiving pies,
decorating Christmas trees.
Easier to assimilate
than fight to retain my own self.
Onam, Vishu and The Bhagavad Gita were in my rear-view mirror.
Until
a boy was born
we shared more than just almond-shaped eyes
my history was his history
my past was his present
to teach him
I had to find myself
the self buried beneath blue jeans and baseball hats.
layers peeled away
to reveal an Indian mother.
I lit the Vishu lamp and it illuminated
my true self.
Payasam, cardamom and ghee
returned to our dinner plate.
Saris, bindis and bangles co-exist
with soccer games, cherry cheesecake and picnics
once I was lost, adrift in the blue Pacific
but I was born again
giving birth
Americanised on the outside
with a south Indian core
Indian as apple pie
American as samosas.
