India Is Me

With colour painted on my skin,

I walk amidst these clouds,

Too high, too scared to fall,

To fall onto more melanin.

The more the melanin the more alien I become, they say.

I try to soak these clouds into me,

Like I absorbed the Indian in my folks.

Like I carry a bunch of them beneath this skin.

Like my taste buds will always crave for more spice.

Like it is all I know.

Like I am always the one suffering with the wrong accent.

Like an accent could be right or wrong.

As if, proper has a sound of its own.

I come from the land of red soil:

Soil being red from the blood.

I come from the air,

Filled with all the carbon and heat.

I come from the waters of the Indian Ocean.

But, mainly I come from my country, my India...