{"id":5384,"date":"2025-12-19T19:01:40","date_gmt":"2025-12-19T19:01:40","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/sites.rutgers.edu\/writers-house-review\/?page_id=5384"},"modified":"2026-03-04T21:11:40","modified_gmt":"2026-03-04T21:11:40","slug":"the-journey-2","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sites.rutgers.edu\/writers-house-review\/vol-6-winter-2025-2027\/the-journey-2\/","title":{"rendered":"The Journey"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

Keya Patel<\/span><\/em><\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

I. Anand- the city where I was born\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

I was born where the monsoon murmurs lullabies on tile roofs,<\/span><\/p>\n

where my mother\u2019s bangles gently chimed as she rocked me\u2013\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

a small heartbeat wrapped in the scent of sandalwood and sunshine.<\/span><\/p>\n

My father whispered my name like a promise,<\/span><\/p>\n

a story waiting to be told.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Before I could speak,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

before I even knew what belonging meant,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

my journey began.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

At five months old, I crossed oceans\u2013\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

carried not only in my mother\u2019s arms,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

but in the faith of a family chasing something more,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

a dream whispered between prayers.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

II. Kampala\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

Uganda became my world of song and color.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mornings rose to the crow of roosters and laughter,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the smell of chai drifting from every doorway.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A temple stood near our house\u2013\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

a golden heartbeat in the neighborhood.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Every Thursday and Saturday we prayed,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

our voices rising with the bells<\/span><\/p>\n

that sang across the city.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

We lived as ten hearts under one roof\u2013\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

stories stitched into our nights like stars.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

We played games until the moon caught us yawning,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

cooking together, burned rotis, and\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

laughed anyway.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It was messy,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

beautiful,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

alive.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I studied there from kindergarten to ninth grade,<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0each day beginning with pressed uniforms\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

and ending in barefoot races through red-dust roads.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

We learned not only from books,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

but from the rhythm of life itself.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When I was one,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

my uncle\u2013my father\u2019s sister’s husband\u2013\u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\n

passed away from a heart attack,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

just after celebrating my first birthday.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He adored me,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

and when he left,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

his laughter stayed echoing through the concerts of our house.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

My aunty and cousin moved in with us soon after,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

grief and love quietly weaving our family closer.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Years later,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

my grandfather\u2013my father\u2019s father\u2013\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

passed from a heart attack too.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I was too young to understand why the grown-ups’ eyes\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

held something heavier than tears.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

But even now,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I feel his blessings\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

in the way my father smiles.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We cousins\u2013 four of us\u2013grew up like siblings,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

sharing secrets, mischief, and mango juice summers.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Then life scattered us like petals in the wind.<\/span><\/p>\n

My oldest cousin went to Canada,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

we came to America,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

and my youngest stayed in Kampala.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

All four of us apart\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

but bound by laughter that travels through time zones.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Then, before we left Kampala,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

my mother\u2019s father\u2013my Nana\u2014\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

was struck by a drunk driver.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He passed away just two days before we were leaving.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He had waited twelve years to see us,<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0counting down the days.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

We never got to say goodbye.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

His love followed us silently,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

across the ocean.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

III. India\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

Before settling in the U.S.,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

we returned to India.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

My mother reunited with her mother,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

her brother, sister-in-law and nephew.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

We celebrated my cousin\u2019s wedding\u2013\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

music, color and joy filling every room.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

For a moment,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

life felt whole again.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

India reminded me that grief and joy\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

can live in the same breath\u2013\u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\n

one teaching us how to let go,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the other way to begin again.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

IV. The USA\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

Then came America\u2014\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

a new world, wide and strange.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

My voice stumbled over words,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

my British English sounded different.<\/span><\/p>\n

I worried no one would understand me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

But slowly, they did.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A teacher smiled,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

a friend waved,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

someone said my name just right.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Piece by piece,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I began to belong.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

V. Now\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

Sometimes I still hear the temple bells of Kampala\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

beneath the hum of city cars.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I still smell my mother\u2019s jasmine\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

as she cooks dinner in our kitchen here.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

And when I look at the sky, I wonder if the same stars\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

shine over every place that made me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

India gave me my roots\u2013\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the strength to begin.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Uganda gave me my laughter\u2013\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the warmth of belonging.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

America gave me my wings\u2013\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the courage to dream beyond the horizon.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

And through every journey,<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0I still hear my grandfather\u2019s voice:\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo matter how far you go,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

your story always finds its way home.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

Keya Patel<\/strong> 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 <\/span>WHR<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Keya Patel   I. Anand- the city where I was born\u00a0 I was born where the monsoon murmurs lullabies on tile roofs, where my mother\u2019s bangles gently chimed as she … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2513,"featured_media":0,"parent":5102,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-5384","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Journey - Writers House Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/sites.rutgers.edu\/writers-house-review\/vol-6-winter-2025-2027\/the-journey-2\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Journey - Writers House Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Keya Patel   I. 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