Thoughts

The Refugee

by

I see her hunched over. Her hair turning silver by the day. That long brown sarong slightly above her ankle reveals her over-sized dark blue sneakers adorned with white stripes on the sides. Her tea coloured printed blouse looks dull with overuse. Her thumb pushing away each bead of a sacred mala, until it has taken its full circle. By her side her walking stick rests, a silent witness to her journey. How must she feel, leaving the land she once called home?

My looks deceive many people. They say I don’t look Indian at all; even though I am one through and through. Feeling lost and out of place has been my oldest nemesis. I feel like a puzzle piece that does not fit in anywhere, but my feelings reduce to an atom size when I look at her. Her home stripped away from her. A refugee in a foreign soil. Her grave will never be where her heart is, but in the land, that embraced her.

She sits quietly and the wind gently serenade her. The Darchogs (Tibetan prayer flags) move with the wind above her head. She turns to me; her wrinkles gather together as she smiles.

109 thoughts on “The Refugee”

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