Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Krishna Pattisapu
For the Little Girl at the Diwali Festival
Her bangled ankles trail behind her father
as he parts an ocean of Indians
toward the ballroom stage, lavani voices
crawling staccato through speakers.
Unlike me, she understands Hindi—
the foreign music of their words,
gold hoops tugging her earlobes thin.
In my childhood, Father told me
girls without jewelry are not beautiful,
weighted my wrists with bracelets
heavier than my hands. Her fingers
crocheted in silence take me back
to that girl of seven, tongue gliding over my lips
at the mention of gulabjamun.
On visits to family, I ate only rice
and chapattis, swallowed each slice of dough
hoping I would not taste it. I ran barefoot
with Indian cousins, Punjabi ripping
with the damp of sprinklers, my pale face
like a spoiled spot on the lawn.
I have the only white face tonight
at my table, bindi clinging to the half-caste arc
of my forehead. I have forgotten to wear
the gold chain that strangles my neck,
my father’s brow raised in disapproval.
This is my daughter, he says.
She is American.
158 ◆ Crab Orchard Review