Friday, April 5, 2019

Self-Identity | Finding the Real You

Monday, August 27, 2018

New Website

Dear Readers,

All of my writing activity is being moved to I hope to see you there!

-Navdeep Kaur

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Knowing Dark Before Light

I was conceived in the darkness of night.
For months I have been walled in a round ring.
I have slept soundly without seeing light.

I have been touched from afar by something.
I have felt vibrations of a cold probe
And for protection held tight to a string.

Sheltering myself quiet in the robe
When I heard her desperate cries outside.
This is all my existence on the globe.

Nobody will picture me as his bride;
I’m icy, without a burial site
After my chance at light has been denied.

Known by all as the one who was not right.
I am one who has known dark before light.

(Dedicated to all of our sisters who are victimized because of their gender.)

Wednesday, April 2, 2014


I found a crying child, lost and forlorn,
In broken brown shoes and tattered old clothes
Like a plastic bag floating down long roads.
He’s the child who should have never been born.
His parents look at him, eyes filled with scorn:
The color of his hair, shape of his nose,
Are the qualities they wished to dispose
Of while he was still unformed—an unborn.

He is who he is, he can’t be reborn
His genes are his forever, can’t be changed.
Love pieced together what has now been torn,
It’d be better if he had stayed unborn.
His colors, his shapes, were all prearranged
By a force of life that can’t be estranged.

Monday, March 17, 2014

Irish Teacher

            “Mrs. Fitzgerald doesn’t let her class celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.” I was in awe of the fifth grade girl talking to me about her teacher.
            “But why?” I asked. I understood only that for some reason everybody must wear green on St. Patrick’s Day. Like Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter, and 4th of July, I understood it to be an American thing. In India we had celebrated days associated with the various religions that originated in the nation. I didn’t remember any festival or holiday having dress codes. People wear costumes on Halloween and everything seems to be orange and black. Red and pink cover walls and people alike on Valentine’s Day. Pastel colors for Easter. Red, white, and blue for United States’ Independence Day. And green on St. Patrick’s Day.
            The fifth grader’s answer was simple, “Because she’s Irish.”
            As a third grader with limited English proficiency and budding knowledge of the world, I asked, “What’s Irish?”
            “Like you’re Indian. She comes from Ireland, so she’s Irish. I’m Irish too.” With that, she was gone. And I thought. Ireland must be like India, a place people leave and move here. Indians travelled to England, France, Dubai, Saudi Arabia, Italy, and Spain. I knew those were countries that offered more money and better jobs. We had relatives and family acquaintances that had moved there. Though Indians moved to all these countries, nobody outside of India celebrated Diwali, the festival of lights or Holi, the season for color. I mused for days. St. Patrick’s Day was coming and I had to decide whether I should wear green and why.
            I began to notice more people who looked Irish: everybody who had dirty blonde hair and fair skin. I realized that many Americans were either British—we were learning about the Colonies in Social Studies—or Irish. Because there were more British immigrants, their holidays: Christmas, Valentine’s, Easter, Halloween all travelled with them and became American celebration days. There were fewer Irish so they got one holiday: St. Patrick’s Day.
            I felt bad for the Irish. Their smaller number meant they had claim to one day a year. I realized how there were only one other Indian kid in my school and scattered Indian communities throughout the area that we shopped and lived in. I wanted an Indian holiday to be celebrated just like St. Patrick’s Day, so I decided to wear green. I was wearing green to support the minorities because I knew somewhere inside me that if we help someone, God will send others to help us as well.
            I wore green again in fourth grade. More Indian kids came to our school and I could see my idea becoming a possible reality.
In fifth grade, I had Mrs. Fitzgerald as my teacher. She wore ankle-length dresses in floral prints, with long, thin ties at her lower back and rounded necklines; I imagined that this was how the Irish women dress.  She said that was her culture—she would not wear short dresses or revealing clothing.
Mrs. Fitzgerald called the class to attention before St. Patrick’s Day, “I’m Irish and for me St. Patrick’s Day is not about leprechauns, rainbows, and pots of gold. St. Patrick’s Day is a celebration of Ireland’s patron saint and should be observed respectfully.” The class knew not to pinch those not wearing green and to not advertise the leprechauns when creating holiday craft projects. Though other teachers in the future would tell us that they could trace their roots to Ireland, they were all American. Mrs. Fitzgerald was Irish. 

Saturday, March 15, 2014

Two Apples

Two apples twinkled among green leaves,
And I stood thinking which to pluck
For my arid lips, lengthy unease
Shaded one in the darkening eve
Cautioning me of obscured muck.

I reached for the other, just as bright,
A thinner coat of wax on its skin
After being shined on my sleeve’s inside,
Though both glowed in the waning light
Similar as identical twins.

Under the setting sun they called
My hands, inviting by freshness.
But my decision couldn’t be stalled.
Knowing that as life went forward
The chosen apple would go amiss.

I left behind the waxed apple,
I’ve chosen one simpler than the other.
Of the two, I plucked one less ample
In its shine; a genuine sample,

And today that is all that matters.

Saturday, December 14, 2013


Photo Courtesy of LiteLens Photography
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Are we dancing?
Is there rain in the clouds?
Is the wind blowing from north to south?
Is the sun shining from east to west?
Tell me the burdens you carry in your chest.

Are we dancing?
Are there shadows in between?
Is there a rope pulling at our strings?
Do you believe in possibilities?
Give me a hope; a signal please.

Are we dancing?
Is there music playing around?
What are the lyrics to the song you sing?
Do you know where we twist and turn?
Let’s fly away without waiting for the urn.

Are we dancing?