The smell of mangoes brings back a past;

One masked behind translucent glass

Black and yellow rickshaws, humid, dusty air

Flowers braided into thick black hair

Temples of ancient stone and gold,

Iridescent outfits, sweet mithai

My grandfather’s hands I long to hold

My motherland knows not of when I’ll return and 

neither do I

Yet the sheer mention of her makes me want to cry