From Me, To You

Here is a poem I wrote years ago about embracing one’s heritage and culture, wherever you may be, or go. To my loved ones who have created homes abroad, please represent that blood that runs through you. In this beautiful yet cruel world, if they look at you with disdain because you are not “one of them”, be proud of the home you left behind, where a part of you shall dwell forever.

Why do you leave it untouched?
When your bindi wards off nazar.

Why do you cover your hand?
When your henna smells like the cities of your motherland.

Why do you sheath yourself in fur?
When your dress is embroidered and handwoven in your East.

Why do you abandon your Dhivehi?
When your ancestors bled for every akuru and every fili.

Why do you hide your culture?
When it is as vibrant as the spices your mom uses to cook.

Your libas and your feyli, your kurta and your lungi, your abaya and your salwar took thousand of stitches to be perfected, and blends flawless with your skin tone and weighs more than any shade.

So when you slowly find yourself stumbling over your mother tongue, remind yourself that your vocabulary spans ten oceans, five languages and countless generations that are now beneath the soil.

You are as lustrous as the kasabu on your grandmother’s libas, as polished as the robes of Iran, as melodious as the drifts of Rajasthan and sweeter than the petha from the kitchens of Shah Jehan.

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