My skin is brown like the people. And our cultures are alike, but still I don’t belong…
My sister and I take a stroll through my dad’s village, Gandevi, the first day we arrive in
Beggar children horde our family as we stand waiting for a train to take us to
I wake up in the middle of the night covered in a layer of sweat. The heat is too much to bear. The power has gone out again, meaning no lights or fans for the day. The ice cream we try to eat is like liquid soup. A cold shower has no effect. The minute I turn it off the sweat returns.
I cannot communicate with anybody. Gujurati is no longer my native tongue. My parents beg us not to speak at stores. It makes it too obvious that we are foreigners, and they will ask for more money.
The toilets here are holes in the ground. The market stalls are covered in flies, but no one seems to care. There are strange bugs crawling everywhere. I can’t eat cold food because it is dangerous to my health. Milk must be boiled properly before being drunk. Only bottled water is allowed. The roads are chaotic. Everything is different.
My sister and I sit out with my foi and fua, aunt and uncle, on the cool cemented porch. We don’t say much, because nothing needs to be said. This is the same porch we passed on our stroll the first day we got to
There is good and bad to everything.
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