I fancy us as troubadours. No, we do not all compose poetry or sing soulfully; yet, there is something poetic about how we function, some sort of fluid camaraderie that intensely sweeps over us when we are put together. Our souls harmonize. I rush to scrawl these words on paper; I want them inked in history. I suppose we all want something like this, in one way or another: to possess an indelible spot on the pages of intimacy, tangible proof of our love.

Firstly, there is the Turkish tea connoisseur. Her tea is unearthly; as it seeps into our mouths, we taste a mélange of flavors: bitter earth, spicy mint. She is a composer in her own right; she composes tea.

 Then there is the Bangladeshi baker. Her cakes are a mountain of lemon zest and buttercream; her buttery, tangy chicken melts into her aromatic curry. Her recipes are lyrics: if you sing them right, you create a masterpiece.

Then, the Pakistani photographer. Meticulously framed photos are her specialty; she is Napoleon, conquering lighting, angles, and color to fashion her visual melody.

 There is the Indian intellectual who traverses the album of books, movies, and shows. There is the Afghani adventurer who weaves poetry through her daredevil footsteps. There is the Indonesian imp who literally weaves poetry.

And finally, there is me. What do I do? I suppose I like to write, and paint, and dream. And I like to hang around these people. They make my heart sing.