I'm brown.
I'm “dot, not feather.”
I'm “can I copy your ­homework?” to “your house smells like curry.”
I'm arranged marriage and Kama Sutra
wrapped in a 4.0 GPA ­sprinkled
with saris and deep fried in curfews.
I'm the caste system and Shiva the Destroyer
and I embody the word prude.
I'm drenched in monsoon season surrounded
by an aura of Diwali lights and colorful Holi powders.
I'm burdened by expectations and held back
by traditions.
I'm expected to be a doctor but I want to heal with my words.
I'm supposed to be an engineer but I want to build
self-esteems with wires of encouragement.

But I'm more than a bindi between my coffee brown eyes,
more than fabric carefully draped around the curves of my chocolate skin,
More than the intricate ­designs traced onto my foretelling palms.
I'm more than a mispronounced name and a
number on a transcript.
I represent one clash of two cultures praying to gods with three heads and four arms as I
count down from five and wait for the labels to drop.