"My Divorce from the Indian Gods", "Mutton Chops", "Humble Pie", "New Age Romance", "A Mother–Daughter Tartare"….by Shreya Datta
- Roi Fainéant
- 21 hours ago
- 9 min read
My Divorce from the Indian Gods
When I moved to America,
I filed for divine divorce.
Irreconcilable differences:
they wanted daily prayers,
I wanted free speech and self-reliance.
We separated amicably.
I kept the spices and yoga,
they kept the festivals.
They got custody of my mother.
I got a job, a visa,
and a mild identity crisis.
And suffering—turns out I did like
the colors, the clothes,
the music—but I threw out those babies
with the god water.
For sixteen years we didn’t speak.
I ignored their friend requests,
unsubscribed from Diwali.
Ganesha probably blocked me.
Kali rolled her eyes and said,
“She’ll crawl back after capitalism.”
And she was right.
Because one morning,
I caught a glimpse of cricket on TV—
men in white, grass so green it hurt.
Something in me stirred,
a muscle memory of school fields
where girls were told to sit this one out.
I wasn’t mad at the gods, I realize now,
just at the men who used them
as referees for obedience.
Later that week in yoga class,
half-heartedly attempting Warrior Pose,
I heard the instructor chant Om—
Grandma’s familiar closing Om back at home.
I smiled, and so, I swear, did they.
That evening I lit a candle.
“All right,” I said, “let’s talk.
”The gods laughed.
“We were never patriarchy, —
you just lumped us in with the board of directors.
”We all laughed then—
it sounded suspiciously like forgiveness.
We met for chai,
talked about our differences.
They admitted they’d never been mad—
just giving me space.
I said I was sorry
for assuming the gods were as petty as men.
We’re remarried now.
Open relationship.
They get Sundays and incense.
I keep free will,
occasional enlightenment,
and see other gods too.
Mutton Chops
Don’t mock my mutton chops.
Us daughters of hairy men
let our faces be adorned
by these luscious locks.
What if we don’t care
about unconventional facial hair?
Why does your masculinity
so easily scare?
I owe no duty
to your standard of beauty.
Call me eccentric, call me snooty —
I’ll wear, with all my grace,
this ancestrally inherited lace.
Let the sunshine fall
upon my fuzzy face —
it shall adorn
just the same.
Humble Pie
Before life's end, be sure to try
A slice of humble pie, oh my!
Your favorite flavor, you won't deny
So delectable, you'll sigh
Maybe even shed a tear and cry
Topped with buttery crumbles, sweet and light
Made of bits of your ego fumbled in life's fight
The topping is crunchy, like your hard-fought wins
Coats the tongue with the taste your highs and sins
The filling, truly thrilling
Eat it slow, God willing
You may taste notes of healing
Of caramelized wisdom, dreams burned
Of Loves lost, hopes spurned
Balanced by windfalls and tables turned
A hint of gratitude
A pinch of good attitude
And that creamy dreamy texture you savor
Made by frothing hope that against all odds didn’t waver
Let’s not forget the crust so fine
Your unkept promises holding it in line
Light and flaky
Falls apart, like your intentions shaky
Delightfully browned and scorched on the sides
Torched with feelings you tried to but couldn’t eventually hide
Humble pie looks and smells divine
Cooks only in perfect time
In the oven of your heart
Fueled by your spirit, only you can get it to jump start
This oven sparkles, burning bright
Magic humble pie cooks on its own, glowing in its own light
Everything about humble pie is just right
New Age Romance
In fishy waters off the west coast,
Where ocean life thrives the most
A shy dolphin, her name was Grace
She had the cutest happy dolphin face
After a productive feeding dive
She noticed annoying sharks arrive
One handsome shark, caught her eye
Shiny and dark, swimming sexy and sly.
She thought, “Dolphin’s smile, sharks grin
Dolphins are nice, deadly, sharks live in sin
Could there ever be a spark?
Between a dolphin and a shark
I like the sun, he swims in the dark…”
California's waters, a paradise grand
To stay here a while, she had planned
Yet, Mr. Shark was always near
Smiling at her, menacing but sincere
Gliding effortlessly, muscular and toned,
Was he seeking her when she was alone
In a fight, dolphins stand strong,
She could take him, it wouldn’t even take long
Approaching boldly, she said hello
“How come you’re there wherever I go”
Mr. Shark looked surprised, and not at all mean
Amicably introduced himself as Tiger Finn
Finn excitedly said
“You’re the most spectacular Dolphin
Scratch that, spectacular being
I’ve ever seen,
I see you don’t have a mate, I think it’s my fate
To take you out on delightful romantic date
I’ll show you all my favorite spots
I like that you snort air, a lot!
I wish I could breathe too
But I’ll happily just watch you!
Together, we’ll feast on some amazing fish!
Polar Mackerels and sardines, Yumm! De-lish
Have you been to the coral reefs?
It’s beautiful beyond belief
Have you swum around shipwrecks?
Such hauntingly eerie spots to neck..”
Ms. Dolphin blushed a deeper shade of tan
Had she finally met her man?
No one made her feel this way
Tongue tied; she didn’t know what to say…
“Hi, my name is Amazing Grace
I’m feisty, don’t be fooled by the face
We are not supposed to mate
But who am I to stop fate?
You’re hot, so why not!
I’ve been swimming solo a lot
I like your toothy smile
And it’s really been a while…
There’s no rule, against a pairing so cool
We’re in the ocean, not a segregated swimming pool
Creatures who judge us, let’s pity the fools
Would you show me the sights you know?
I have a good feeling, so on these dates I’ll go
I can’t have your child
But I can be sexy and wild
And that’s worth something, right?”
And then at first light
They swam towards the titanic
And indulged in passion manic
Pent up love and lust, it felt so good!
A dolphin and a shark totally should!
A Mother–Daughter Tartare
Pieces of my difficult dead mother,
our twisted love —
an eternal bother.
But I had only her, no other.
Oh mother! Dead mother.
Mother, our love wasn’t whole.
You let child-me see your ugly soul.
Our love was real — painfully so.
What should a hurt child know?
A woman deals.
I remember the good pieces,
more and more as my being releases.
The cruel ones I put away,
to be perused another day.
But all our pieces don’t fit.
This broken puzzle will never complete.
Our story will never be neat,
but rest assured, I won’t repeat
this tragic, cannibalistic love for a child.
My love will be kind and mild —
tempered — a gentle breeze to your tornado.
And maybe one day I too will grow
some new roots
that better suit.
Goodbye and farewell, mother.
There will never be another
beautiful and cruel love like you.
What’s a grown woman to do?
Rest in peace.I hope I can still release
my old wounds, exhumed once more
by your death.
Why waste more breath keeping score?
I pray you haunt me no more.
Mother India: The Chip on My Shoulder and the Thorns in My Crown
Don’t you dare tell me I’m not India’s.
Yes — I speak your tongue, wear your clothes.
Yes — I don’t conform to whatever image
you hold of Indian women.
You, sir, know nothing about us.
You think I’m progressive, modern,
a woman with a backbone, a feminist —
that I speak my mind.
Do you think I became this way
just by showing up here —
learning the ways of your people?
That your country “saved” me?
That I am special?
I was forged back home.
Yes, India is cruel sometimes —
especially to her daughters.
India is a tough mother,
never shielding her children
from the cold, hard truth.
But she is my mother,
and the only mother I will ever have.
She taught me well —
about this world and those who run it.
She taught me what I lack,
and taught me to persevere.
She taught me to keep pushing
even when it’s easy to give up.
She taught me she doesn’t care
where I live, or whose flag is on my passport —
she just wants me to thrive.
She’s not a jealous, possessive mother.
In fact, she trained me for this very moment.
She trained me to survive,to grow a skin so thick
and a mind so sharp that nothing fazes me.
She trained me to seize my opportunities
and live out my choices.
She taught me the value
of what she never had.
She let me feel her sorrows and misfortunes,
and burn with purpose.
She raises millions like me —
millions hungry for her redemption,
millions who call her mother,
who are proud of her
even though they know
the world thinks she’s puzzling —
a post-colonial, third-first-world yoga land,
sprouting STEM employees
and exotic spiritual mumbo-jumbo,
poverty porn with grand food.
Good.
She knows her daughters will grow up one day.
No matter where they live, they will remember.
They may not shout it from rooftops,
but she’s there —
like a hug for those she was kind to,
and like a chip on the shoulder
of those she wasn’t.
She knows she couldn’t be everything
to everyone.
Broken Roots
Chasing the glamorous unknown, far away from home, yielded impressive fruits
One half the ones I wanted, ripe and juicy, scented with delicious possibilities
The other, rotten, unwanted, spoiled, and moldy, decaying with a putrid smell
My tree, diseased from not really belonging here, with its broken foreign roots
My tree of life is corpulent, stable thick trunk, heavy bosom of glossy green leaves
Sheltering me with opulence, makings of a wonderful life, high achieving and free
But sadly, the mysterious disease spreads underground and manifests in sick fruit
Roots that won’t take what this land gives without a fuss, my tree of life grieves
No cure for this, for a grown tree can’t be moved easily, it was displaced long ago
When it was but a young sapling, softer, malleable – driven to thrive against all odds
Parched roots gratefully drinking unfamiliar nourishment, it forgot it was a tree
Thought it was a rolling stone, now it seeks its home, cries for there is nowhere to go
The roots have rebelled against this land that gives, but also takes in unequal measure
I can turn a blind eye, unfeelingly accept compromise, but my tree can’t lie to itself
Leaves whisper hard feelings, from prejudiced dealings, they know they don’t have a voice
“I can bear you fruit, from which a new sapling would shoot, but it wouldn’t have a choice
It wouldn’t belong, So - I will slowly perish. I no longer cherish these foreign pleasures”.
The Tree Butterfly
She doesn’t hover at every bloom—
some sweetnesses shine, but sour too soon.
She waits where blossoms brave the breeze
and sips pretty whispers high on trembling trees.
She’s not here to compete with bees,
their frantic work, their colonies.
She drinks with grace, doesn’t overindulge;
her thirst refined, her senses culled.
Not every nectar earns her flight;
she tests the air, she tastes the light.
Above the meadow’s easy charms,
she feeds from risk, from lofty arms.
Her love’s not hunger, but design—
selective, sacred, self-aligned.
Even longing learns to climb;
even choice can be divine.
Shades of Belonging
Back at birth home, where the sunshine remembers my face,
where the colors shine so bright,
where familiar, long-lost spices set my tongue ablaze—
so many heartfelt delights!
However, if I had to choose freely,
the part of my trip that heals my immigrant blues
is that upon my return, I am finally among
thousands with that matching golden hue.
Back at chosen home in my white-washed life,
I cannot help but scan
every space I’m in
for anyone with a kindred tan.
I don’t wish to befriend—
just to understand.
My impromptu demographic surveys
remind me—
I’m not part of this land.
Here’s the catch:
you can have a passport,
but never truly belong
if the face you wear
doesn’t match the song.
Cry Me a Philadelphia River
Philadelphia, my city,
has not one but two rivers—
a mother and her child.
I favor the mother’s banks;
at the Delaware waterfront I pray,
contemplate, say my thanks.
At the Schuylkill—her child—
I am a child: I eat, I run,
I catch sunsets.
I’ve only called Philly home in recent years,
but the two rivers help me forget
that I am not really from here.
Sometimes I sit quietly at the Delaware’s edge
and think of things this river has seen:
a country’s birth, a people’s death,
ships, mills, bridges, towns, and cities—
all a blip to her.
She’s on a different timeline,
a different plane of existence.
Perhaps that one makes more sense.
I ponder river immortality
and my kinship with the thousands before me
who have sat somewhere like here,
with her and her child.
Whether we were hurting or not,
she has comforted us
along this Philadelphia mile.
A river always knows where she goes—
and I, I don’t even know about tomorrow.
I try to be more grounded,
and I find it’s easiest to do
not just on the ground,
by trees with my feet in grass,
but by a river—
this river.
At the Delaware waterfront—
a thousand books I’ve read,
fifteen years, so many skins I’ve shed,
journal entries till my feelings bled
out into her.
Pretty thoughts, shitty thoughts—
here I river-watch, people-watch, sky-watch,
connect the dots
between my flow, her flow, the cosmic flow
of energy and all this synergy I get to enjoy:
the Delaware River’s sexy moonlit glow,
her daily fiery orange sunshow.
These always move me—
these are truly free.
And as I sit,I imagine she’s flowing through me,
and suddenly I am the Delaware.
Life just is—
it’s neither fair nor unfair.
I relax, bit by bit,
at this man-made pier,
thinking about my year
in a city held by two rivers.
I am, very much, a believer
in the magic of water.
Despite all its terrestrial commotion,
Philadelphia is held by the ocean.
Even far from shore—
and there’s so much more
to timeless rivers,
eternal givers.
We do nothing to preserve them.
We do not deserve them.