NRI (Non-resident Indian)

I have a secret –

I stalk real Indians in Westfield Mall

to snatch at a lilt of Punjabi, Marathi, Gujarati –

whatever you choose

to send your missives to those jilted by you.

I have a weakness –

the masala vapours I inhale at your diner

take me back to the tiffins –

to my dead masi's table, aching with a hunger

I'll never fill.

I have a fear –

that the ragas I hear

will haunt me with

contagious regrets – regrets of a widow

cast out to lament beside rivers without religion

I have a passion –

for saris – when I'm far from your gaze

I expose my stretched navel

return to my birthright of six yards of silk

before stowing the cloth with mothballs to rot.

I have a habit –

I stain my hands with henna when I leave –

to force you to abide after that plane ride

home, captured, tattooed – but then you fade

to a pale orange stain, I must try to hide.