Sreya Pyles

My nana speaks of home
the way many women speak of their mothers…
with a dish full of love and warmth. She sips on it
like chai in a Kerala cafe at sunrise.
I’ve heard of the Kerala sunrise.
I’ve heard it induces synesthesia,
where the senses blend in this case
almost as beautifully as ginger and coriander
in Her daughter’s beloved chicken curry recipe.
Almost.

When the light hits the water,
voices in every dialect across the country
sing all the names of my brother…
ray of light is sung praise to,
praise directed at every god
as they all reside within Her:
from the swallow’s beak
to the deafening whisper of
the cobra’s hiss
(We all get hungry,
my nana tells me,
so we all pray).

When I ask my mother for a word to describe her country,
she pauses and asks if she can choose twenty-two:
a word from each language that calls India home.
I suggest the words for “beauty.”
She laughs and tells me that in her language,
“beauty” is synonymous with the words
“my grandmother’s favorite sari.”
“Trust me,” she assures me, “that sari is no apology.”
And with my great-grandmother’s blood pumping through my veins,
I believe her.