In America

By Manaswini Subnivis

Trying to fit in this country is like trying to fit a jigsaw piece in to a puzzle that you never expected to be what it is

And I wasn’t a piece that was manufactured here.

I wasn’t a piece that was manufactured here

And neither is this where I’ll always be- so I wonder where my place is.

It’s so different from my homeland,

Where my mother shelled peas into a little steel tin that she sautéed with potatoes and spices.

And here I find them frozen by the dollar-

Chasing an American dream.

There’s color but muted and vintage

And quaint houses that are meters and meters and meters apart.

There’s no cricket and football’s called soccer.

But that doesn’t make me mad because football something that wasn’t ever ours.

The drink sizes are huge and insurance bills longer

What does this mean for people here I wonder?

Does Fanta drown your ankle pain or a child on his mother’s chest require a fee- This I can’t fathom.

But it’s also wild and free

In colors I’m unaccustomed to- red, blue and white

Like a Lana Del Rey song

That I’m living in color.

By Manaswini Subnivis