The perfect Indian girl

I am the perfect Indian girl
With sun burnt ripe hay for hair
And caviar streaks in the air
With orange peaches for cheeks
Reflecting the gory yellow of my noons
I feel heroic with each pigment of tan
When i keep jumping man holes
And fall asleep in buses
My scalp produces a modest proof
I bathe the best on sundays
And my bag may stain with oil
My college dreams are television borne
I can pretend Napoleon never existed
When I nod furiously at my grandma's commentary
I can neither be a capitalist ('cos I don't have the money)
Nor a communist in wanting (by default I have to budget)
I am lauded with the parent pride anthem
And I tend to be 35mm wide and loud in love.
I am loud, you can count my teeth.
But that is how I justify all erratica