My ancestors worshipped Gods of white skin and golden hair,

So much that they grew to hate their skin the colour of the Earth,

Wild sable curls glossy with coconut oil and perfumed by jasmines,

Were tossed aside for straight, fine strands and fair complexions,

The shame of our identity trickled down generations,

Of rubber-tappers, policemen, lawyers, and farmers,

And into my veins of casteless blood and a mouth that cannot speak the tongues,

That flowed gracefully from my forefather’s mouths like spring water,

I struggle to piece together fragments of my identity,

Stuffed away in copper cups and earthen pots in my kitchen,

Along with treasure troves of spices, coconuts, and tamarind,

And the gold and silk in my grandmother’s cupboard,

Among my inheritance were proverbs, superstitions, and prayers,

Passed on generation to generation,

With love, devotion, trauma, and pain,

That morphed and accumulated over the years,

The fear of being different has made us bleach our skin,

And forget our mother tongue,

The fear of being foreign,

Has made our hymnal songs and mourning wails too soft to hear,

More than a century after my family tree sank its roots here,

We are still seen as outsiders,

But this land would be fruitless without our labour,

And we are the sons of this soil.

Cover image by Saradhi Photography on Unsplash. The copyright of Sons Of The Land belongs to Rishi Lawrence.  

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