My Father, The Immigrant

My father was an immigrant to England after the partition of India. I would not be but for immigration for my mother was English. My appearance gives little hint of my heritage. People in my presence use the words migrant, immigrant and refugee to offend and dehumanise. They wound my existence.

I respect those who hold different beliefs and customs so long as they do not cause harm. I am enriched by those near and far, for intolerance is the home of insecurity, and the path to unhappiness.

Shadows and Light

The shadow of sadness can blanket days. Not the sadness brought by a single experience, but a place of self where darkness and vulnerability reaches into every corner. Here the prospect of hope and those things good can barely be seen, if at all. I watch this darkened place in someone close to me. Although there seems nothing I can say to make a change, I hold out my hand, and for a moment, a single of the many shadows lifts.

Tone, Our Uncovering

The way someone says something is often as meaningful as what is said.

As I hear another's voice I am receptive to its tone, however it is curious I am less so of my own. At times what I say is understood differently than is my intention.

Tone in language is open, interpretive. It shows our light and dark, our attitude, our quality and character. Tone shapes what is said between us. Soft, hard, full and fake, tone is our uncovering.