ઘર

i.
the smell of incense is soothing.
my mother lights a diya at the small
shrine we keep at the upstairs aclove,
the flame shooting pale tendrils of smoke
into the air. the smell carries with the sound of her voice,
singing the aarti. when she’s done, i eat the
fruits and nuts blessed by the prayer, the smell
still in the air as the flames flicker away.

ii.
later, i’m watching aamir khan dance across
a living room screen. someone lit incense,
brought chevda and kachoris. the smells grow heavy
in the air as aamir sings, voice rising.
the incense is extinguished. they say
the smell is too much. i disagree —
home is never something to keep hidden.

iii.
in fourth grade, after school, i used
to make chai for my parents, carefully
pouring ingredients into the saucepan:
a cup of 2% milk, a cup of water,
two and a half heaping spoons of tea grounds,
and a dash of chai masala to top it off.
wait for it to boil, turn off the stove. serve.
i only drank it once, though, when i was
sick and swaddled in blankets,
and my dad said here, it’ll give you strength.
i didn’t like it. it tasted too familiar.

iv.
now, at coffeeshops, i see people ordering
chai tea lattes, and i am reminded of my parents’
orders. a spoon of sugar for my dad, none for my mom,
but a little more masala, a little more ginger in hers.
these coffeeshop girls don’t know how the color
of chai changes from white to brown on the stove,
how the smells rise in the air as it’s cooking.
how chai is tea, you know, and this practice
of naming things twice — a tea tea latte —
is just another form of colonization.
once, i try a sip of my friend’s. it’s nothing like home.