By Shivani Shah

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This poem is about an eye-opening moment I had as a twelve-year-old about my identity and privilege.

On our way to Kerala
with endless plowed green fields 
I mean, it is the tea state of India—
blue lagoons with bent trees populated the coast
houseboats planted on water

We followed a narrow road 
driving on the side of the cliff overlooking 
miles of tea fields and tiny community temples
sustenance on a bed of hope and prayer

To get from one place to another
we drove for years sipping tea
winding roads dangerous enough —
for our blind-in-one-eye taxi driver 
added another element of fear

And I observed their villages, their beige with gold-accents 
mundus, brick houses with straw roofs
before falling asleep on the worn-out tea stained leather seats —
in the car when I opened my eyes, I was still a stranger in the region
the temples worshiped different deities
mundus turned into sarees, 
and the movement of peoples’ tongues altered

On a day like this, we even visited the Padmanabhaswamy Temple 
only Hindus can enter, but my Jain dad looked Hindu enough
I remember 
looking straight forward 
thousands of legs marching the line 
in anticipation to pray
to the deities, seconds before being shuttled out
and recite mantras
that I recognized from back home

I saw men a few years older than me
with devotion in their eyes 
and ragged feet
these men prepared for this moment their whole lives 
but the temple workers swept them out in mere seconds with their jhadus
and here our American accents intruding
whisked away to see the deities 
with more than a few minutes to pray
a few feet away from the gods

Once we left
as a twelve-year-old tourist
realizing her privilege
I didn't hesitate and bargained 
outside the temple 
with a man who looked just like my uncle
standing in the middle of the dirt-stained road
with sandals barely covering the bottom of his toes
for tiny, colorful trinkets
until he asked for my shoes in return

Process

The poem started off as a response to the prompt “write about a memory in detail.” Once my mentor and I talked about the meaning of my response, we started creating a project surrounding my identity. This poem is part one of the project, as I also wrote a short essay about my journey in navigating my identity and interviewed my grandfather.