new years

my transition into January is a crisp march

aligned with dadi’s crisp bhindi preparation—

a tedious process that rewards lovingly.

new years at home now seems newer as

we grow old, and distant, and tired

but still hopeful in a way the squirrel

returns to the balcony each morning

scurrying through familiar territory

or the cat hisses as she guards her babies

but does not run.

i am learning how

exhaustion is not always a warning sign.

my family is around the table—

the dal is hot, the lauki slightly sweet.

a gourd vegetable whose English i refuse

to look up and Hindi i refuse to italicize.

my dad buys rasmalai we indulge in

after the suitcases have been packed,

the last lot of clothes hung out to dry.

in all our imagined futures, may we

have each other, may we pass the dal

around, brush aside a political debate

only to revisit it after this meal,

wait for everyone to catch up

on post-dinner walks.