His thin, young body hung backward, his arms supporting the full weight of his chest and shoulders. His head fell backward too, as he kept his eyes closed while pouting his lips. He sighed with a cocky tone and artificially exhausted, he started talking about his travel to Punjab in the upcoming week.
“Yes, these kanjri will be waiting for me.” He was joking, having anticipated the common jokes of both his American and Indian friends so often that their jokes now sounded like his own.
“I look forward to play cricket.”
“Are you any good?”
“No, not compared to my nephews, but I know ho to play.”
“One day, me and my cousins were playing soccer though, and someone kicked the ball off the pitch, and before you know, you are in the gandi basti, in the slum.”
His hand combed his hair back in style, his white collar stood upright. The overhead light reflected on his brown face like a golden glow.
“Do you know the term desi?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he answered in his fluent American accent, “It is someone from the south, you mean?”
“It is a term for Indians being brought up in America.” Continue reading