Assimilation is something I think I have caught well, most days anyhow
and then some famous crooner die and there is an uproar of grief
I find some of my friends here have their memories defined by the music of their formative years,
those names that evoke such strong emotions for them – I do not share, I am ignorant, no music has brought me to a definition of identity
I was brought up in a different culture where food marks the passage of time
in a land where there is the monsoon and rainy season where fat raindrops can pummel you if you were caught outside
with the whiff of the earth and the open drains caught up by the breezes that cool the equatorial air
there are no daffofils or seasons of misty fruitfulness but we have the durian season
the pungent smell of the king of fruits -the redolent luxuriance that leaves you with a guilt for having gorged on its golden flesh
I ache for the pungency of the place which was once home that can carress the senses where here we complain about the smell of curry that we erase with air fresheners.
But I am full of nostalgia, conjuring up a place that no longer exist
and wherever it is I call home these days, we cannot escape the acrid smell of pollution, car fumes and toxic wastes.
