Namaste

The father of an Indian daughter
Who is doing well in America is excited
to receive a plane ticket, from a daughter
who says, ‘Appa, please
come and visit me.’
But then, once out of the airplane
in America, he sees his suitcase.

It looks different. Less.

Back home, visiting his parents, in
their village (it’s poor there),
taxi-drivers carrying that same suitcase
from the bus-stop call him, ‘Sir.’
Now, in this American airport, he sees

his daughter’s eyes hold embarrassment.

Sees her thinking: Appa is not doing
so well as his daughter. What is he to do?
He’s done: holding a baby. Saving. Praying.
Wishing a better life someday, for her.

Now he worries: because he never bowed his head before strangers.

The daughter thinks, as she makes the call

I have served flowers at holiday feasts
carrying a silver tray, jasmine
strands touching my fingers.
Sometimes my elders gave me saffron to hold
Or rosewater, to bless the head of the arriving guests.

Now, in this austere land: isolate, how will I
offer welcome? I cannot find the balm
of incense here, nor

holy saffron thread. There is no salt, no ritual
water. Only me. I am a vessel without ornament.

Namaste

Shymala Dason is a first-generation immigrant from Malaysia to the US, and the child of second-generation immigrants from India to Malaysia. She was a finalist for the Flannery O’Connor short fiction collection award. Her work has appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Literary Review, The Margins, and elsewhere. She is also a developmental editor and writing coach. Carrying the Ocean, her poetry debut, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.