Aangan

The holy ground where we grew up,
my cousins and I. We toddled and scraped
our knees on its uneven cobblestones.

A crescent moon of marigolds, roses,
and bougainvillea surrounded it.
Our tiny fingers bottled the sweet scent,
storing it like songs on a loop.

Dadi scattered rice,
inviting sparrows to the luncheon.

“Never leave nail clippings in the courtyard.
If sparrows eat them,
they become barren”—
her advice to us.

We floated paper boats in the downpour;
earthworms popped up to watch the spectacle.

Sitting on rope cots during blackouts,
Grandfather told us stories.

He called on neighbors
to sip tea beneath the neem tree.
They came when needed,
even at an ungodly hour.

Now I am here
in America.
It’s a delight to see sparrows.
When I stand outside my front door,
there is one that hops right up to my feet,
tilting its head
from left to right, and
right to left,
as though looking out for me.
I believe
it’s the one from my Aangan.