The train is late.

 New York. 6.00AM

 I groaned as I pulled the sheets over my head as the shards of sunlight shine through my blinds. Monday. Outside I could heat the rush of people trying to get to work, the horns blaring as drivers impatiently wove their way through the traffic. The Pedestrians trying to get to their destinations faster than everyone else. No one stops for anyone in The City of Dreams. I peeled off my sheet and almost tripped on some clothes that were scattered around my room. Sigh. Slowly I take my clothes off and step into the small shower cubicle. Luxury living is what the brochure promised. This is otherwise. As the water cascaded down my body, I ran my hands through my thick hair and thought of Home.

 My tiny island. The Pearl of the Indian Ocean. With its trouble and tribulations. With its nature and peace. With its culture and traditions. It’s midnight for my family back there. I miss them, but I value my independence. It’s liberating. I think of my malli who sings all day and night, and my nangi who quietly retreats to her room to read the day away. My mother and father whisper together till dawn. “The economy isn’t great, what do we do?”,mother asks with fear in her eyes. “We will manage”, my father will reassure her and they will be haunted by these worries in their sleep too. The worry and stress makes them look old and fatigued. I think of my nosy neighbor who always comes around to see what we’re up to and her funny husband who wears a sarong hitched up to his waist not caring how high it was. I think of our maids, small meek girls who would otherwise be married off to old men to take the burden off of their fathers shoulders. They’re happy here, a sort of sisterhood among them as they look after the kids.

And I think of Him. His strong arms as he holds me when I cry and stress. His dark and soulful eyes stare into mine until I look away, afraid of being exposed. The way he would run his hands down my spine, sending shivers through my entire body, as he caresses my lips with his. He’s always had a way with me and in the end I surrender my mind and body to him. But, it’s a secret affair. One for the shadows since he wears a white string on his wrist and I don’t.

 I turn the taps off and step out. The water rivulets collect in puddles around my feet. I wrap myself in a fluffy towel and stare out of the window. A lady in red takes her child to school, a man walking hurriedly to wherever he’s off to, a couple of teenagers smoking in the corner oblivious to everything else except themselves. 

Two hours and a train ride later, dressed in a short summer dress, I walk down a busy street. People stare at me and my long black hair. Here I’m considered exotic, back home the fair were favored.

 I walk into a trendy restaurant and walk past the busy waitresses and waiters to the corner most booth. As I slowly make my way up to it, he sees me and gets up to embrace me, “I’ve missed you”, he says as his hands drop down to slowly caress the side of my body. I laugh. I’ve always had a way of luring the male species. My mother would chide in my choices. While my brown boy stays loyal back home, I conquer the hearts of young white men here.

 After playing around with my food and engaging in mind numbing conversation I kissed him goodbye and leave, with the promise of meeting up later. I doubt it but I don’t say this aloud. I walk to the station and on my way past the restaurants that serve South Asian food, I see the lovely brown aunties in their red and yellow sarees, the children running up and down screaming in a mixture of English and Sinhala and my heart hurts as I think of home. After walking down the subway steps, I sit down on a bench waiting for my train. People stare at me as they walk past, over and over again. I’m a piece of art in this country. Too dark for my own community.

 The train is late

Submitted by Anonymous.