Our Dreams
“Geetha, we’re almost there,” my mother whispers. I
scowl (because she woke me up)
wiggle (because the cramped airplane seat won’t let me stretch)
yawn (because I feel like I only just fell asleep).
In my dream
(which burst when Amma’s voice poked it)
we were still in India.
In my dream
I was a famous musician
playing my bamboo flute at the Music Academy,
playing powerfully enough
to move my packed audience to stillness
before thunderclaps of applause rose
to the vaulted ceiling and my father
strode onstage and clasped me in his arms
because I’d brought him back to us
through my music’s magic.
In reality
I’m slumped in stale airplane air,
my ears popping like dosai flour on a hot griddle
as the plane drops down, down low,
landing
in my mother’s dream.
Three Years Before We Moved Across OceansMy mother said she and my father grew apart
as if they were two branches on the same tree,
bending in different directions.
Truth: Angry storms blew apart
our family tree.
That’s why
only Amma and I flew to America.
Appa stayed behind, in India.
Now that the two of us are so far away from him,
I should stop imagining my parents
will somehow get back together.
But I guess hope is a cork that never stops bobbing
on the waves of life’s ocean.
Welcome to America
My mother’s sister, Kamali Chithi,
and her husband, Payya Chithappa,
are waiting in the airport with welcoming hugs.
Let me take that. Payya Chithappa tries to lessen my load.
I tussle with him, clinging to my backpack, although
I’m so tired, I could fall asleep standing up
in spite of the clackety carts, clickety shoes,
chattering voices.
I’m sure I can trust my uncle, but I want to hold
my old moss--green backpack tight
because my fragile bamboo flute is inside.
Welcome to the land of the free! Payya Chithappa shrugs,
lets my backpack go, and leaves
me to carry my burden on my own.
Empty Apartment
Isn’t this great? my aunt exclaims as we
walk into our new place.
I trudge through the poky kitchen,
two tiny bedrooms with a bathroom squished in between,
and something my aunt calls the
family room,
although most of our family is in India!
I feel further from home than ever before.
I squint out a grimy window
at the squat gray buildings, crouching
like a flock of pigeons
on a narrow gray street below a dull gray sky.
My uncle cranks open a window, and tangy sea air
whooshes in, making my skin tingle.
Isn’t it nice, Geetha? Our new home? Amma’s eyes sparkle.
Yes! I say real loud.
Yes! I repeat
as if shouting something
more than once can make it true.
Traveling Heavy
My aunt and uncle have filled up our
super-tall American fridge with
super-big American fruits and vegetables.
Now we have butter instead of ghee,
cheese slices instead of paneer cubes,
milk in cartons, not bottles, and a container of
butter pecan ice cream—a flavor I’ve never heard of.
After they hug us goodbye,
saying,
Call us if you need anything, see you soon, we eat and unpack.
Then I go straight to bed,
where I lie awake thinking of all
I couldn’t carry with me:
Our tall tamarind tree
with its sweet fruit and shady canopy
under which I felt safe.
The room lined with shelves full of books
that I loved to touch and smell and read and reread.
Books full of stories and poetry and
facts about animals and nature.
I wanted to bring my favorites with me, but Amma said,
Sorry. We can only bring what we really need, Geetha.
She kept taking books out of my bag and
I kept sneaking them back in, till finally
she hugged me close and said,
There are weight limits on what we can carry. But there’s no limit on how much you can dream for in America. There, if you work hard enough, you can be anyone you want, do anything you want.
So I packed light
and we flew across the sea
with my little suitcase, my old backpack,
and my weighty heart.
Copyright © 2025 by Padma Venkatraman. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
