Escape

I grab Asna’s hand,

palm to palm,

nail to nail,

and lean in,

but Nana’s hand

yanks my shoulder.

Don’t you know

about the father

who went in

to get the mother

who went in

to get the brother

who went in

to get the baby?

The sea swallowed them up.

These waves

are not to be played in.

But Nana . . . I’m a swimmer!

Nana gives me a look,

a flash of gray-ringed eyes.

A look

that makes me swallow

my words up whole.

Best Friends

My grandmother Nana watches us,

so we stay on the sand.

After watching

camels roam in the surf,

their pom-poms taunting us,

a balloon seller bobbing by,

red yellow blue green circles

looking

d

o

w

n

at us,

an elderly beggar woman

(with too many wrinkles to count),

and black crows,

shrieking for food and company,

Asna and I trace our names

over and over,

watching the waves

slurp them up.

I watch Nana right back.

Beach Food

For lunch:

Soft mutton that my fingers shred easily.

Biryani rice.

Brown, saffron gold, white

ghee-soaked grains

that gently slip off my spoon.

For dessert:

A white box tied with string

Asna and I sneak our hands in.

Buttery biscuits from the bakery,

a dot of jelly in the middle.

For tea:

Roasted corn, its teeth

more black than yellow.

Chips saltier than the sea.

Teatime

When the sun is dipping,

and Nana goes in the villa to pray with Nana Abu,

we tiptoe in finally.

The waves pull hard

but we smile anyway

stuff our laughter in our cheeks

giddy with getting away with it.

After a few waves

guilt strikes.

We turn to tiptoe back,

but my glasses fall

and even though I try to grab them,

the sea sucks them up,

never to return.

The Perfect Day

If I could choose

a day

to live over and over,

I’d choose today.

Camel rides on the sand,

the feel of stiff fur.

Memories of the sun setting in our hair,

sandy eyelashes.

Home

After the bumpy ride home

from the beach

we are served

scoops of gold—

Nana’s mango ice cream

and Baba’s news.

The Worst Day

If I could choose

from all the days on this earth

to live over and over,

I’d skip today.

Tangle

Just when my grandmother Dadi’s mind

becomes so tangled

that she doesn’t remember

my name anymore,

Baba, my father, gets the news:

a job offer in America.

He says Yes

because my uncle is here to help.

He says Yes

because schools there are better.

He says Yes

because of “job security.”

He says Yes.

The Yes slices our old world away.

We will travel.

Mile upon mile.

Mile upon mile.

While my grandmother’s mind

tangles up more.

Tangle upon tangle.

Tangle upon tangle.

Math Class

While I wait

for my new glasses to be ready,

reading is fuzzier

but numbers are still sharp

in my mind.

The teacher taps her desk,