My family calls me Lucky.
My friends call me Harshini.
I hear my nickname
more than my real name.

It feels strange
to be called Harshini.
It sounds like a scream
in a silent movie.
It looks like an apple
in a pumpkin patch.
It feels like I stand out
when I want to blend in.

It doesn’t feel like the me
who is fond of reading,
fond of falling
into whimsical worlds.
Not like the genuine girl
who has hair as black as obsidian,
and eyes as brown as tree bark.

Lucky feels more natural.
It sounds like the wind whistling
throughout the day
and looks like the sun shining
in the summer.
It feels like it belongs.

Feels like it contains
all the myriad memories
that have shaped me.
All the experiences,
good and bad.

Harshini may be the name
on my birth certificate,
passport,
and school roster,
but it just doesn’t feel
the way Lucky does.