My soul carries an equal amount of disdain for failed shawarma imitations,
As it does for poorly cooked lentils and rice.
I may have begun to cherish Bengali sweets at a young age,
Yet my newfound love for quesadillas is quite a passionate one.
Having developed my driving skills under the sultry Gulf sun,
There are one of three languages that my tongue would find when provoked.
Having acclimatized to local quirks, while being defensive of the Queen’s English,
My pronunciation of ‘schedule’ is still ‘hella’ amusing.
The language of permanence has been an elusive one,
The term identity unfamiliar.
I struggle to tick boxes, to describe my single point of origin,
I’m baffled by fond memories of high school and friendships going back decades.
How I choose to tell my winding story is yet a mystery,
When I continue to yearn for the unparalleled scent of rain in Southern India,
When my ears perk up at the faintest hint of Arabic in passing conversations,
When October finds me nostalgic for my brief affair with Michigan Fall.
Someday soon, I hope the word ‘belong’ adopts a lasting spot in my vocabulary.