The morning Azan is my theme song of the day;

Jasmines, I wear, as perfume 

Which my Amma ties into a garland.

Piyajus and alur-chop waft me towards the kitchen, 

The house is a greasy rice cooker 

Us – tumbling and trickling in the summer heat

Praying for a thunderstorm 

We are stuck in the long drive back from coaching –

“Home, Home, again,” sings Floyd

Traffic screams and trucks huff –

I come home at 9 pm to Cha with Nidhi and Ayaat

Ayaat sings me her favorite song– a warm, tight hug;

A melody I duet in the shower with my shampoo.

The rich, sweet juice of the first mangoes of the season,

Quenching my cold thirst 

The Aunties hold my Ammu back 

to hear more about the kamiz she is wearing 

The sun is neigh, the moon hanging by the thread of love.

My Ammu’s pitched laughter rings through my heart, filling my lungs

Dimples sink deep, wrinkles stretch far wide;

Ayaat grabs me by the waist, reminding me of you

Little less and little more every day as I am back home.