Woodlands Nursing Home, Room # 309 (Poem)

I am from withered books,
rusty butterfly clips,
thakurmar jhuli playing in the background
and thick framed glasses.

I am from mismatched earrings,
white shirts stained with chocolate,
scribbling on walls with expo markers
and dusty, wooden shelves.

I am from Doctor Who marathons
at three a.m.
and all night Skype conversations
with my best friend.

I am from empty coke cans,
whipped butter and sugar on toast,
point five lead mechanical pencils
and AP Calculus study books.

I am from my mother,
her “Clean your room!”s
her “How was your day, sweetie?”s
and her comforting hands stroking my head

I am from my father,
his “Work hard, kiddo!”s
his “Have you cleaned your room yet?”s
and his grey t-shirt soaking my tears

I am from India,
with muddy slums and spicy samosas,
skyscrapers that stroke the sky
and hot Darjeeling chai with biscuits.

I am from the shivering autumn breeze,
and the scorching summer sun,
but the white winter veil
is not where I’m from.