Our fate was written in the
folds of your mother and grandmother's saris, beautifully
intertwined with the gold patterns on
the long sheets of fabric.
It was written in the
hem of my father's hockey jersey, patriotic
to our love just as my father
is to his team and city.

And yet, not even the promises we made to
each other could hide the fact that a bindi does
not belong on my forehead, and that
you belong in a cricket field, not an arena.