Reflections on Dal Lake

 
 

Chai Chat 

Black peppercorn, cinnamon, crushed cardamom,
Softly simmering in Kahwa tea,
Their fragrances rising with steam.
Overflowing pots fill steel cups the same way
The stories my parents tell us fill the air. 

Chinar trees, green almonds, snowy mornings,
Glimpses of their childhoods
That are nothing like ours.
Each night, a new story unfolds,
Bubbling, brewing, frothing,
My parents eager to spill tales of their youth. 

Bites of Kurkure, Parle G, and Bourbon biscuits
fill our mouths and stomachs.
Nostalgia rich in the air,
As our chai chats become my favorite
distraction from homework and school. 

Soldiers, bloodstains, guns,
My mother weeps for her twenties,
My father blisters silently, reflecting on lost friends and family.
These tales are horrors,
Nothing like the greens and golds of the valley I once knew of,
Or at least, had heard of. 

The conversations that once flowed like chai
Are stilled.
Missing years finally revealed,
For us and them.
Bitter and over-brewed,
the spices that once enchanted us
Are no longer the same.

Exodus 

We drive twists and turns,
Over and under mountain paths,
Through tunnels and over bridges,
The car easing its way back into familiar paths. 

I sit, cradled on my father’s lap,
Unable to claim my own seat in the crowded car.
He puts my arm on the window ledge,
Right on top of his, feeling the heat, and the sun, and the breeze. 

He points out to hills and dips and valleys,
Things I would have never seen myself,
If not for his careful eye. Little do I know,
he’s noting how different it feels to be back.
Saffron poppy fields, indigo lakes, evergreen pine forests
Are all I can see, beyond winding roads. 

At just 7 years old,
I sit and listen to his love for the valley,
unknowingly naive about why he left this beautiful place. 

Better career opportunities!
For school!
To marry mom! 

He doesn’t speak of the escape -
The car ride out,
In secret,
and hiding.
House locked and barred with whatever wood they could find.
Everything left behind,
Just a bag of clothes on their back.  

For now, 
All I know of this place
are the cherry trees that Nanu once planted in the backyard,
(of the home that they never got to move into), 
and the shikara boats floating on Dal Lake as my father biked to school,
(the school that was later closed because his old teachers were killed),
and the freshest fruit picked from street markets.
(the markets where they would kidnap and kill) 

Thoughts in the Rickshaw  

A thousand brown eyes meet mine.
The heat drowns me with a single step,
Off the airplane. 

Voices swirl the air like dust,
No longer the same “Hello’s!” and “How are you’s?”
But rather tongue-twisters and unfamiliar chatter.
Words tumbling, cascading,
unable to grasp even a single word. 

Silent, watching, searching.
The colors are just like what Amma has in her closet.
The voices on the phone sound the same in person,
even miles away.
My family, my ancestors, my home -
It’s here, right? 

Apartment buildings tower high above me,
crowds push and sway,
Surrounded by so many, yet no one.
How could my parents ever call this place home? 

But as my mother sweats,
and as my father fumes,
I realize they’re also prickling under the
hot Delhi sun.

Longing for the cool mornings
and starry nights of Srinagar,
they know that home will never be here,
or there,
or Maryland,
or America.