what does it mean to be desi?

it’s the smell of chai before the sun wakes,
the hum of an old song your mother still plays.
it’s hands that feed before they take,
a language of glances, of knowing, of stays.

it’s spice on fingertips, stories in air,
bargaining like art, loving like prayer.
it’s oceans away but roots dug deep,
a name mispronounced, a history we keep.

it’s joy that’s loud, grief that lingers,
gold on necks, mehndi on fingers.
it’s everything, everywhere, all at once—
not place, not blood, but something much more.