Raat ki rani—Queen of the night.
Sitting beneath her, words softly chanted
at the base of this plant blooming in darkness.
Saturated stillness as she transcended

to spiced air thick at Coco Beach, that blue coast of Dar.
A riptide. Left suspended in deception of
flowered sweetness
she lands on a Punjabi night, sitting silently
in Sector 8 (the name, that name sounding
already of dystopian fate).

Ringed through an ocean and four states to this place,
and who was I?
Who was I to stop her flight?
Her world divided, and who am I?
To say she isn’t right.

In frantic expectation her open eyes see me
my father’s dark tone, her own wild hair,
all rooted here in a world unknown.

Roots will twist and weave, in unending strife
to an undying glow. And who is she?
Rootless and light.
For what does she yearn, if denied that right?

Her rootless flight.

Screaming now at the days she was deprived.
Screaming now at the love she cannot find,
Screaming, screaming to get out of the sun,
-it was never meant for me.

And who am I to cry back at her?
A heart can split in so many ways.