Witnessing India With All My Privilege
Cars honk nonstop
not rage, not threat.
Just saying
I’m here. Don’t forget.
In Canada, honks mean fight.
Here it means
We share this tight little slice.
At first, I flinched.
Thought: why so loud?
Now I love it
on narrow gullies,
laughing too proud.
I get it now.
I get it now.
Cows wander up
no motive, no plot.
Just vibes.
Just time.
Just a maybe-you-got-snacks-or-not.
I joke they want directions.
But maybe they smell the foreign on me.
Maybe they know I’m not from here,
still wanting something
like everyone be.
Women comb long hair
in winter sun glare,
standing on rubble that used to be homes.
Slippers cracked.
Sweaters thin.
Hair still shining
Amla oil memory in the wind.
Men piss on the side of the road,
zip down tradition,
aim at the dust.
On the way to the gurdwara.
On the way to the store.
Morning breath.
Midnight thirst.
Patriarchy rehearsed.
Dogs roam loose
no leash, no rules.
They belong to the soil,
not obedience schools.
They nap under amrood trees
where my Papaji prayed,
where my Beeji’s laughter
still stains the shade.
They don’t bark like Canadian dogs,
trained to defend fear.
These ones just watch.
Stay near.
Curious.
Cautious.
Calm.
They don’t beg when they walk beside me.
They scan the street.
They guard my body.
When the danger’s gone
they fall behind me.
Uniformed kids walk past
kids working stalls.
No eye contact.
No surprise at all.
They already know.
They already know.
They look at me with questions in their eyes
Where you from? Why you dressed like that?
They copy my walk,
borrow my stance,
try on my freedom like borrowed pants.
They smile first.
Always smile first.
Then they grow up.
Sir jhuk ta hai.
Aake neeche.
Bow low, survive.
Humility is how you stay alive.
They follow my lead
but I don’t speak this tongue.
My freedom’s loud.
My freedom’s young.
My freedom’s paid for
with someone else’s blood.
It’s privileged.
Ignorant.
White-washed lungs.
All the while young India step straight into my space,
pull up chairs,
pour chai,
read my face.
They don’t ask names.
Don’t ask flags.
They already know why I drag this weight across continents.
They feel my fracture.
My five-river ache.
They feed me food
and unfiltered takes.
They show me streets.
They show me scars.
They hand me truths
without keeping scorecards.
They know the journey I’m on here.
They say
Walk with us.
Now my unlearning
has witnesses.
The gap
it steals my speech.
It’s stitched
into the nation’s skin.
Displacement isn’t a glitch
it’s the engine within.