i am just a poor boy though my story's seldom told.

Some days you end up sprawled on your polished wooden floor wondering how you got to a place where you feel so empty.

But some days, the thunder echoes louder than your fear. And your music drowns out their existence. And you have a seat. You feel elated. 

You realize that if it doesn't work out in the end, you'll leave. You'll find a way to avoid home. A way to avoid the bitterness that tore at your seams. You'll find a way to survive. Because you were born a fighter. You were raised an achiever. But more importantly, you taught yourself to dream. 

notes from my journal, september 2010

Ravaged by time, the house still stands. It has undergone numerous paintings yet the color looks faded, pale, cold. As though love is a prerequisite for vibrancy. The gate has begun to rust and the walls are crumbling, stone by stone, cement crumble by cement crumble.

It’s hard to stand here objectively, to view it as just another house. It’s hard not to see the Christmas stars we hung on the Verandah. Three because three was what we used to be. Lit up by the 40 Watt bulbs we bought at Manasi Gifts. Three children, blind and unknowing, pitching rocks at the green, unripe mangoes and running to grab them when they had fallen. It never did matter that they were unappetizingly sour. That’s not the point really, is it?

The road that runs in front of the house is pot-hole ridden. I can remember a time when they had recently paved the road. It was the color of coal. Of kohl. Of Indian irises. I wanted to sweep the street every day to make sure it stayed that way.

I walk by. I tell myself it’s because the gate is locked, it’s because the house is locked. But when you get down to it, the truth is blatant. It has lost its value and so I leave.

Seventeen paces from the edge of the church is a grave. The stone is marble, and the words read, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”

Seventeen paces from the edge of the church, my heart gives way.

Eleven years ago, a child was buried here. The priest stood at the edge of her grave and sprinkled sand on it.

Eleven years ago, I buried my soul in a dusty town in southern India.

The people stand by, their beady eyes watching closely. I want to scream. I want to tell them that this isn’t a movie. That this is life.

The women stand on one side, their sarees lifting in the light breeze that drifts through the open church. There is a sound of a hammer knocking on wood. It is distant and perhaps I’m the only one to hear it.

We walk in single file. My hands are sweaty and clammy.

I want to cry.  It's all I can think of in the moment. My sister is dead. And the crowd is watching; we're on display.

I don't cry at my sister's funeral and for the life of me will never be able to let that thought go.

so happy right now... that i had forgotten until this moment that im turning 21 in ten minutes. and that is what great friends and family will do.

Dinde, an Indian Turkey

Tomorrow: family and friends are coming in for Thanksgiving Dinner at our home.

My mom and I are making cheese scones, pumpkin bread, and a pomegranate-apple-walnut salad among all the other staples.

Denise - my best friend since I was four - and Sam, my brother's friend, drove all the way from Massachusetts. It's been so nice having them here.

Lately, I've been feeling like things are falling into place - like things will get better. Life has been good these past days and I feel calm.

I'll be 21 this Saturday - we;ll see how things go from there.