I Can't Find The Rhythm

By Supriyaa Hejib

Since I stepped foot on the soil of this country,
I haven’t been able to find the rhythm.

Rhythm? Not the chime of ornaments
Dangling from a Christmas tree—no, no.
Rhythm, like the murmur of crockery
Gliding under cold water in the sink,
Because my mother let me drain the warm water
While I bathed.

I weave through crowds, bustling, converging
Around the nucleus of a food truck,
But I still can’t find the rhythm I once knew:
The clink of earthen cups,
Steam spiraling as the chaiwala pressed them
Into eager, anticipating hands.

I listen for it as the younglings run,
Chasing one another, shouting, “Tag, you’re it!”
And yes, their laughter does lift my spirit,
Yet, it’s not the rhythm of Lagori stones tumbling,
Or a tennis ball striking make-shift stumps
In the lanes of gully cricket.

I comb through every corner of this country,
But I can’t find the rhythm.
How could I, when it lies dormant
Within the chambers of my heart?
It awakens only when I write—
Each word alive with the rhythm I miss.