Samanth’s father had often claimed he’d been robbed. Of his heritage, his culture, his homeland. The list was burnt into Samanth’s mind for the moment he’d learnt to string together words and ask his father questions.

At nineteen there was a girl whose skin turned his father’s eyes dark with fury. His father pointed at her back through the kitchen window and burnt new words into Samanth’s mind. In these ones Samanth was the thief, the robber snatching away what was left of “their kin”.

Samanth looked at his father.

“You cannot steal another’s essence father. Only surrender it yourself.”