My Santiago

Foreigner

I was born a foreigner in the land of my birth, Being some parts French, And others, Jersey mirth

spiced with random sprinkle of Singhalese, where the colour gives the game away.

I spoke a different dialect to my native land, Remaining a stranger to those from the one place, the one tongue The sibilance, both familiar and strange, from Pali, Sanskrit, Dravadian, Sacred yet erotic syllables, in their rounded curves, prefixes, suffixes, triumphant elephant trunks crouched - on the roof of words with exquisite tails and sinister underbellies, Captured by loose head movements, leaving life open to no rights, no wrongs;

Maybe it’s like that?

The sounds, the words, Drag my mind to ancient kingdoms, Kashyapa’s patricide, At Sigiriya and sacred Mihintale, Signalling a refusal to simply be corralled, be sensible, like English.

I translated the script haltingly, The words, pretending off my tongue easily enough, Learnt the Kavis, The words, not the meaning, Sang the Bailas, lewd verses, enticing to my 14 year old mind, Got strapped for being an adolescent, And, mostly, stumbled by, Without ever full meaning or mastery, Never comprehending my loss, No words, no thoughts, lost culture, no belonging.

I was born a foreigner, Am destined to be one, Cocooned within a culture, then and there in that pearl-dropped country,