All your life you have been describing colour. Describing your own in a language that had become your life vein. A language that had begun to convey even the darkest of henna on dusky hands, and articulate the lights of a childhood Diwali.
And then in the land where this language came from, you find your language inadequate, as though all your emotions would be eaten by sarcastic clichés. Not one thought your own.
Your Indian English slowly dissolves in British phrase, and you grope in the dark for some word to explain the fat splat of a raindrop.