I miss aimless walking through the streets, the summer roam;
Venturing out in the winter chill, and wandering astray.
Not knowing the destination, but always feeling at home;
I miss howling at the rickshaws, telling them, “Just take me that way.”

I miss the dusty paths, the unpaved roads with no sign to ‘stop’;
Or treading through the morning fog, where one could barely see.
Or waiting for hours at the corner, for a glimpse of her from the roof-top;
And then wondering all day, ‘what her name might be’!

Waking up to the yelling of my dad, instead of the alarm-clock;
The walk to the school, the friends, and gossiping all day.
I miss the bazaar, the bustle, with no culture shock;
The food, the traffic and the honking noises from far away.

I miss walking out of my home into a sea of my own skin color;
A culture I am a part of, a world of my own kind.
The sense of belongingness, the language, the slur;
I miss the people that understand me, and can read my mind.

I miss the monsoon clouds, sunny springs, flying kites;
The parties, the festivals, the fun and the glee.
The weddings, the songs, the dances and the fights;
What I miss the most, however, is myself – the way I used to be.

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