Identity, Language, Poetry

My Uchipattam

My mother parts my hair in the middle, Places the Uchipattam at the center. It rests on my forehead. It feels cold. She tells me that I look like my grandmother; Not…

Poetry, Reconciliation

We, Displaced.

She marched through the streets in ’09, For a country thousands of miles away, For the people she had never met. She marched, and she stood side by side Thousands. Thousands, who,…