Words, to me, are the form and face of what makes up a life. I can say, The poetry of my life begins at my grandmother’s voice. Can you see her, sitting in our verandah reading the Quran, dupatta over her hair and glasses on her nose? These words put her there. Memory pulled them down. Who I am is a stone on the string of women who brought and keep me here. I am the boy I’ve always been and the woman I keep becoming. I am the sound I carry most clearly— the azaan stitching through the Bangalore sky, making sentence of the day. I am from the home I left to arrive here, and the home I have forgotten to stay. I am ashamed and trying not to be. I am faithful to the body's prayer, to love as the first place, and love as the last. I am listening. I am writing to you.