This Is How I Remember It
A poem about chasing dreams, and the memories that still whisper.
Dear friends,
When I left Lucknow, India, 29 years ago, I told myself: “This is it. New country. New life. New me.”
What I didn’t realize is that you never truly leave home. It sneaks into your suitcase. Whispers through phone calls. Echoes through the quiet moments when you least expect it.
And while I’ve built a meaningful, fulfilling life in the U.S.—with work I love, friendships I treasure, and a deeper understanding of myself—I still find parts of Lucknow sitting quietly inside me.
This poem is a reflection of that. Not a factual timeline. Not a biography. But a memory map—written the way our hearts remember.
Maybe you’ll see parts of your own story here, too.
Not with a bang.
Not with fanfare.
Just a suitcase zipped too tight,
a mother’s hug that lasted too long,
and the quiet guilt of looking back
One last time at the gate.
I remember the Lucknow sky—
thick with kites and prayers,
the sound of temple bells
bleeding into Friday azaan,
as if the city never liked choosing sides.
Papa didn’t say much.
He rarely did.
Just that nod of his,
the one that meant make it count.
Maa packed too many snacks.
I left them on the plane.
I still think about that sometimes.
America didn’t welcome me.
It tolerated me.
Fluorescent lights,
silent elevators,
strangers who smiled with their mouths
but not their eyes.
The first job interview
was in a windowless room.
I wore a suit I had borrowed
and hoped I hadn’t earned.
They said,
“We’ll get back to you.”
They never did.
Nights were the hardest—
not because of time zones
but heart zones.
Maa’s voice lagged.
Papa’s voice didn’t come at all.
And when Toolika (sister) cried on the phone,
I pretended I didn’t hear her.
Homesickness comes in flavors.
You can’t explain.
Then came the little wins.
Someone remembered my name.
A stranger laughed at my joke.
I bought my first winter coat
and stopped flinching
at the sound of my accent.
I made friends—
not like the ones from home
Who knew your stories
before you told them—
but friends who listened,
who stayed.
That was enough.
Success crept in slowly.
Like a shy guest
at a desi party.
Suddenly, I was on stage—
presenting, leading,
helping others find their way.
The boy from Lucknow
had found his footing
in a land that once felt allergic
to everything he was.
But still…
some nights,
I smell Lucknow rain in a Detroit thunderstorm.
Or see Amma’s shadow
in the way the light falls across the kitchen floor.
And I wonder if home remembers me
the way I remember it.
Not with perfect details.
Not in straight lines.
But with heart.
And heat.
And love tucked inside pain.
So no—
I don’t regret leaving.
But I carry it all:
The smell of turmeric on a Sunday.
The songs of Gulzar drifting through alleyways.
The sound of my sister’s laugh
echoing through my chest.
This is how I remember it.
Not exactly how it was—
but exactly how it feels.
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With love and memory,
Anshul
So wonderful, Anshul.