Back in the year 1983, I am travelling wild beyond Caribbean Sea in the remote land of Surinam, red mud stretches for several miles, dotted with weeds between sand pleats, like carpets of golden dust spread over streets
Every matured plant is a fruity tree. Mangoes in abundance smashed under wheels, sky above, crystal blue, Stranger am I in this distant land, an unknown place with unknown tongue, Dutch must learn I to define a pun.
Unpack my bags and walk a talk, to my surprise I hear one Hindu hawk, turn around; see a native man, Indian features, with familiar brand, meditates on a wooden beads, chants Hanuman Chalisa and prays like a priest
At the dawn of day, the old woman comes, relating me the story of her ancestors, one hundred seasons, in the cargo ship, from remote land of Uttar Pradesh, with promise to grow rich, and a rosy bed, her grandpa was brought to fields to slave.
No money to return, and a will to survive, he settled here clinging to their culture divine, to maintain their sanity, they lived in groups, ate daily spicy Indian food, spoke Bhaiya language with common tune and even watched some Bollywood.
Happy at last, thousand miles apart, I have wrapped my thought around my mind, hand in hand, palms entwined, they enclose me into their inner grind, we build a new cozy world of power and strenght, no more a stranger in this foreign land
Under my pillow, I keep huge ball of string which, when unwound stretches happiness all the way to my motherland
Writing prompt: http://www.jacarandapress.org/writing/poetry/grace.shtml