By Sharanya Menon
Somewhere, in a life I never lived,
I wake to the weight of monsoon air,
thick with the scent of wet earth and coconut oil.
My hair, dark as the backwaters at night,
spills down to my knees, heavy, untangled, adorned.
Jasmine flowers thread through each strand,
soft ghosts of a language I never had to learn.
I know these streets without thinking.
I slip through alleyways where stray dogs doze in the heat,
where betel-stained laughter spills from tea stalls,
where temple bells ring out like a song meant only for me.
I know the weight of silver anklets,
the way they kiss my skin with every step.
I know the sound of my own name
spoken without hesitation, without doubt,
without the ache of translation.
Somewhere, in Kerala,
the girl I could have been
carries her words like second skin,
moves like she belongs to the land she stands on.
She does not hesitate before speaking,
does not reach for a tongue that flickers and fades.
She does not wonder if her voice sounds wrong
when she asks for one more parippu vada at the tea shop.
But here, when I speak Malayalam, my brain turns to mist.
The words feel foreign in my mouth,
like they were never meant to belong to me.
I grasp for them, but they slip away,
syllables collapsing before they form.
I stand in front of family,
lips parted, mind blank,
watching them wait for a voice that will not come.
Somewhere, the girl I could have been
walks barefoot through rain-washed gullies,
draped in sun-drenched cotton,
the scent of jasmine trailing behind her.
She does not know me.
She does not need to.
But I know her.
And some days, when the air is thick with monsoon rain,
I close my eyes and wonder-
if she ever dreams of being me.