She could be any of the faces I saw. Tiny eyes, yellow skin, high cheekbones. My xenophobic mind mistakes her and automatically labels her an offensive vernacular label even as she holds me back to give me a little something she made herself.

-For you.

I try hard to feel happy, to be nice for the sake of the little present but my palm hides it in the folds of my skin as I bow a reluctant bow.

Among the Rolex-taunting, SUV-careening monks of Dharamshala is a little girl-child with the softest of voice who despises foreigners, even as she and her’s continue to live and procreate in the latters’ land but tries to keep no hard feelings.

Thought exists only as an escape from reality. If you spared me my addiction to thoughts I’d never smoke a cigarette, inhale, snort or inject myself. I wouldn’t read a book; I wouldn’t look at a picture. I wouldn’t cry or go high or low. I would be me – open, wide and unflinchingly mathematic. You could calculate me into a system, break me down and find bubbles that intensify for the sake of clarity because I Will it to do so and you would be amazed at how little I cry for myself or any of you.

But the fact of the matter is, even as it hurt my legs and arms, I moaned and shed tears asking strength and the correct way (whatever that may be) for all those lost. I cried for the girl I couldn’t smile at and the man who wouldn’t let me touch prayer things because I have a high forehead, wide, bulging eyes and brown skin. I cried for the monks and I cried for my lost friends.

I cried so they find their way and hoped the blood they shed fighting back their country was worth it. I wished for once they would prove me wrong because I don’t see how a reluctant Communist Republic would change its mind when it has the power to never need to bow.