The Taste of Home

(Because you cannot get the street food of Delhi elsewhere in the world…)

To this Indian restaurant I have been referred

The food here is authentic, I have heard

This time maybe I would not return

Disappointed, hope my palate would discern

The taste of street food from the by-lanes

Of my hometown, attempts to find it have gone in vain

*

The food was excellent, but did not recreate

The magic that I craved for on my palate..

Maybe my expectations are unreasonably high

Maybe it’s a different air, and that’s why

The taste is different, and does not compare

With my hometown’s lip-smacking fare…..

*

Even when you don’t realize it, subconsciously

You search for what you left behind in everything you see

Or hear, or taste, or experience, wherever you go

You revel in the thrill of novel experiences, but you know

There is something about home that you cannot recreate

In a foreign place, the subliminal nostalgia you can never eliminate

Perhaps this is for the best, because it binds you

Irrevocably, permanently to the nest from which you flew

And forces you to return to your roots to quench

The thirst that is for an immigrant a constant presence