The Journey
Keya Patel
I. Anand- the city where I was born
I was born where the monsoon murmurs lullabies on tile roofs,
where my mother’s bangles gently chimed as she rocked me–
a small heartbeat wrapped in the scent of sandalwood and sunshine.
My father whispered my name like a promise,
a story waiting to be told.
Before I could speak,
before I even knew what belonging meant,
my journey began.
At five months old, I crossed oceans–
carried not only in my mother’s arms,
but in the faith of a family chasing something more,
a dream whispered between prayers.
II. Kampala
Uganda became my world of song and color.
Mornings rose to the crow of roosters and laughter,
the smell of chai drifting from every doorway.
A temple stood near our house–
a golden heartbeat in the neighborhood.
Every Thursday and Saturday we prayed,
our voices rising with the bells
that sang across the city.
We lived as ten hearts under one roof–
stories stitched into our nights like stars.
We played games until the moon caught us yawning,
cooking together, burned rotis, and
laughed anyway.
It was messy,
beautiful,
alive.
I studied there from kindergarten to ninth grade,
each day beginning with pressed uniforms
and ending in barefoot races through red-dust roads.
We learned not only from books,
but from the rhythm of life itself.
When I was one,
my uncle–my father’s sister’s husband–
passed away from a heart attack,
just after celebrating my first birthday.
He adored me,
and when he left,
his laughter stayed echoing through the concerts of our house.
My aunty and cousin moved in with us soon after,
grief and love quietly weaving our family closer.
Years later,
my grandfather–my father’s father–
passed from a heart attack too.
I was too young to understand why the grown-ups’ eyes
held something heavier than tears.
But even now,
I feel his blessings
in the way my father smiles.
We cousins– four of us–grew up like siblings,
sharing secrets, mischief, and mango juice summers.
Then life scattered us like petals in the wind.
My oldest cousin went to Canada,
we came to America,
and my youngest stayed in Kampala.
All four of us apart—
but bound by laughter that travels through time zones.
Then, before we left Kampala,
my mother’s father–my Nana—
was struck by a drunk driver.
He passed away just two days before we were leaving.
He had waited twelve years to see us,
counting down the days.
We never got to say goodbye.
His love followed us silently,
across the ocean.
III. India
Before settling in the U.S.,
we returned to India.
My mother reunited with her mother,
her brother, sister-in-law and nephew.
We celebrated my cousin’s wedding–
music, color and joy filling every room.
For a moment,
life felt whole again.
India reminded me that grief and joy
can live in the same breath–
one teaching us how to let go,
the other way to begin again.
IV. The USA
Then came America—
a new world, wide and strange.
My voice stumbled over words,
my British English sounded different.
I worried no one would understand me.
But slowly, they did.
A teacher smiled,
a friend waved,
someone said my name just right.
Piece by piece,
I began to belong.
V. Now
Sometimes I still hear the temple bells of Kampala
beneath the hum of city cars.
I still smell my mother’s jasmine
as she cooks dinner in our kitchen here.
And when I look at the sky, I wonder if the same stars
shine over every place that made me.
India gave me my roots–
the strength to begin.
Uganda gave me my laughter–
the warmth of belonging.
America gave me my wings–
the courage to dream beyond the horizon.
And through every journey,
I still hear my grandfather’s voice:
“No matter how far you go,
your story always finds its way home.”
Keya Patel is expected to graduate in 2028 with a biology major; she is on the pre-dental track. Keya wrote this poem in a course taught by Richard Murray, who selected the piece for inclusion in WHR.