• An immigrant’s song

This poem is about my experience of being an immigrant in the world of advertising; coming to NYC and seeking a new job, new life.

Yesterday i was in Goa

the sun shining bright

my feet in sand

a beer bottle in my hand

I was laughing with my girl pal

I was dancing by the pool

But today i woke up in a snow storm

Miles away from home

The blizzard is disoriented

Just like my mind

I miss my life, my easy life

my familiar job, my awesome boss

my entitled life with cooks and maids

a mother who cares

and a city that drapes, a warm cloak over me.

The man on the radio

the girl holding her wine glass

i miss that life

and most of all, i miss the Bombay sea.

I am here by the Hudson river

Cold as ice

The blizzard whispers as

I watch the grand orchestra of the sky

The curtain raises on New York’s skyline

I am an immigrant now

Learning how to make it in Trumpland

I am not entitled

I am a stranger in this land.

I hold my passport with trepid hands

And scream that i have a work permit.

I knock on every door

But nobody answers

I hide behind my computer screen

I struggle to change everything about me.

I straighten my curls

I powder my brown skin

I conceal my scars

I strip my clothes of color

Black, white and grey

Is all i wear today

I put exclamation points to my sentences!

And deceive you with my optimism

Everything’s great! It’s a lovely day!

That’s what i say

when my boots weigh heavily on Bleecker street

I admire the city with starry eyes

I stare in awe at the grand pianist on Washington street

I become determined to make it in this town

I study at NYU

I speak at SXSW

I go to every networking event

I am a m‘ad’ woman i say

American girls welcome me with open arms

Some mentors offer their help

One of them offers me a cup of tea

In the land of starbucks coffee

Fellow indians offer empathy

But hiring managers remain silent.

6 weeks and counting

This is just the beginning

Patient are those who make it in America

As Albert Camus would say;

Even in the harshest winter, I carry my own summer

If the elevators are closed,

I take the stairs to the top of Empire State

I thrive on the kindness of liberal minded souls

And then when I look in the mirror

I see a different person

I am an Indian, an immigrant, a human

And this is my song!