This is “I’ll come, come again”.
An end with a promise—open-ended till when
without a known date of reunion for us.
The end of breakfasts with
idlis and dosas,
sambars and upma,
and chai. Oh chai!
Goodbye sweet papayas,
chickoos, and custard apples.
Atha’s fish fry and chicken curry too soon.
The end of the sound of auto-rickshaws
and their loud short horns that interrupt my nostalgia.
It’s where the sun sets
and everyone shuts their eyes.
The curtains close too fast to feel their weight.
The leaves have changed colors and traveled in the wind.
Goodbye kurthis and dopatas too.
Even though I’ll try to relive it all–
each outfit back home,
this is the end and it won’t be again.
The people; my family will grow, grow, grow.
The city; my city will grow, grow, grow.
The languages; my languages will evolve and evolve.
So this is the ending;
the “I’ll come again”.