On the night the airplane landed,
the sky was painted in shades of blue and grey.
Faint strokes of gold swept across the dark night,
creating a canvas freckled with stars.

I stared up at this familiar scene.
It reminded me of the view I witnessed each night,
gazing out the open window
in the corner of my room.

But on this cool evening,
after flying for 8,431 miles
over limitless oceans and luminous clouds,
I landed on the other side of the world.

I was in a city in southern India,
walking through foreign streets,
attempting to speak to people
who could not understand my words.

I remember feeling like an outsider
in an alien culture,
where I was unable to connect with others
because I was so vastly different.

At one point I believed the sky,
with its endless hues,
was the only linking piece
between where I was and where I used to be.

However,
I refused to let these thoughts linger
and I decided to look at my situation
from a new perspective.

The streets I walked on were foreign,
but they lay underneath the same sky
as the streets I could still imagine in my mind
from the open window in the corner of my room.

I realized that maybe I was not so different.
By thinking this way,
I began developing a sense of familiarity
and belonging.

And on the night before I left the city,
I noticed an old woman with deep-set brown eyes
looking up towards the watercolor sky,
with its blues fading into blacks.

I approached her
and rather than speak,
I pointed to the sky.
She shook her head and smiled.