I am brown
I am different
from the white and the black.
I am Dravidian, a word as
difficult as the origin
of the universe.
Now I'm a hyphenated American;
I speak English
with a discernible accent.
It's not Southern Utah accent.
It's not South Indian Brahmin accent, either.
Oh! South Indian accent
is perhaps rooted in Telugu,
Tamil, Kannada, or Malayalam.
Or, is it a composite one;
the composite one that is
further nurtured by your
school, teachers, and peers?
While I was in South India,
I was still a minority:
Because I was a Brahmin
Because I was not rich like Reddys or Kammas.
While I was in New Delhi,
I was still a minority.
I sharply felt it so then.

First, my name gave out;
second, my Hindi was tinged
with a clear South Indian accent;
third, I was a shade darker than the fair Punjabi;
fourth, I was brighter than the others
in my mixed Indian circle;
fifth, I was able to speak their tongue,
while they couldn't my language;
it was exotic and foreign to them;
sixth, for that matter, they couldn't even pronounce
my mouthful Godly name.
Seventh, I was cultured and
knew Gita and Shakespeare;
saw popular Bombay movies
and attended Krishnamurti's
discourses on metaphysics and theology;
missed no major classical concerts
or dance performances—eastern or western.
Yet I was different for being poor.

I am what I am.
Why should I be like some one else?
Even my brother is different.
We share the same parents.

I am brown
I am different
from the white and the black.
The Upanishads say
"Tat Tvum asi."
"That thou art."