enaku veetuku ponum

On the isle of foreign soil,

drunk, dry and confused by mirages and snowfall, 

nothing smells of home, 

neither the chicken nor the curry nothing smells like home. 

On the miniscule of a second, 

pushed and pulled by a million memories, 

I don't know where to start,

neither the incense nor the silence fill my empty nights. 

On the virtual reality of skype
felt and unfelt
I am longing for am embrace
that smell's like my mother's jasmine.

On the flight back home,
cuddled and jetlagged,
I only wish to stay back,
and stop saying "Hey its been a year, how are you?"
and start saying "How was the movie yesterday?"