Dear South Asian Women,
With the tropical heat enticing your body to melt in its radiant enfold, sapphire beads upon the cashmere of your skin glimmer from the orange hue of streetlights. Your glowing brilliance is a sparkle that captures my heart among the crowd of millions. My only desire is to follow and be near to you, however far you are between the multitudes separating our anticipating romance.
Through the torment of loneliness, it feels as though I’m in a crazy music video, bloodied and beat up; dying my way home in this endless search for you. Time is at a standstill and the stillness becomes unbearable, yet with persistence, I finally find myself looking into your… no wait, that’s your bindi!
As my eyes are drawn from the forehead to your hypnotic gaze, it reveals the mystical waves of the river Ganges. Our passion is brought to life in the flourishing flows of water, and in your bath, you submerge yourself in the fragrance of lotus flowers. It is then that you walk towards me, dripping with the dew of ancient legends and folklore.
It saddens me, when you’re insecure about the perfume you give off to those unfamiliar to your culture. But your adorable little pores are what permeate the air with the aroma of exotic oils and spices; my sweet intoxication. Fear not my love, for being Chinese myself, I probably smell like mothballs, and together our surroundings will fade into a moment of us.
Gently tracing the soft curves of your face resembling that of the elegant smoothness of chai, towards your heart-shaped lips, I find that it tastes sweeter than the sweetest mithai. In your kiss is an adventure of unspeakable consequences, for aren’t you arranged to be married to a prince, tomorrow?!
Dear South Asian Women, though it scares me to death that your father might come after me and invent new torture methods with a dagger, mine has cleavers and chopsticks and they can fight it out. You might think the only reason I want to marry you is for your expediential wealth and fame, and that you’ll turn into the goddess of death if I don’t comply, but it’s not the reason why.
My Desi princess, you’re the Jodhaa to my Akbar, and our loving destiny shall be united in reincarnation for eternities to come. For you I’d give up my attendance at the temple of eating cows, my dearest jaangiri. I’m willing to eat curry for the rest of my life and let hot peppers become my journey of ecstasy.
And with the infinite thrills of getting chased after in the daytime and night, our romantic escapades will continue to bring us excitement. You can ride at the back of my wheelchair, for always and evermore.
Slumdog Dollaraire Ricky
P. S. Did I mention I can pop a wheelie to make an epic ending for our musical?