sequined dresses
rot in my closet
“vintage” earrings
and eid bangles colored dark brown
they used to be ruby red and gold
fit for a bride or a princess
or a a little girl
only “desi” from a couple bracelets
that could be bended with a stroke
i’d never tell my mother how many of her bangles
i broke that way
twisting them into weird shapes
sometimes the alphabet,
sometimes hearts, sometimes eights
sometimes i think she wouldn’t even care
sometimes my own culture feels like hearsay
never a place for shimmer on my wrist
grandparents and cousins pass
without one chat
only flashes of biryani and mangos
they feel like imitations to follow
real memories
no eid parties, ramadan dinners, no chants of zindabad
no real idea where i come from
only imposter-syndrome
during cricket matches and bollywood movies
people call me lucky
“you speak three languages!”
but i’ve forgotten my own
broken family and broken punjabi
i wish my “desi”
was more than things
more than pretend
but we moved too far for that
every bend of a bangle
destroyed practices
that should’ve seeped into my skin
and flowed through my blood
I forgot traditions
fashioned and followed for a millennia
in one generation
I killed a culture for my children
I wish my desi was more
I wish it was me, for them
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