Desh Ki Yaad
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In a foreign city in a foreign winter
I dream of the Deccan in July—
the particular green of the post-monsoon fields,
the particular quality of that sky.
They say the homeland is in the language—
wherever Hindi is spoken, the home arrives,
the smell of the earth after the first rain,
the familiar in which the memory thrives.
I carry India in my vocabulary,
in the words that have no English equivalent,
in the metaphors the Hindi gives for feeling
that English is, in the best translation, adjacent.
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In a foreign city in a foreign winter
I dream of the Deccan in July—
the particular green of the post-monsoon fields,
the particular quality of that sky.
They say the homeland is in the language—
wherever Hindi is spoken, the home arrives,
the smell of the earth after the first rain,
the familiar in which the memory thrives.
I carry India in my vocabulary,
in the words that have no English equivalent,
in the metaphors the Hindi gives for feeling
that English is, in the best translation, adjacent.
