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Showing posts from March, 2020

Us and Them, at the Secunderabad Station

They see my starched white linen
And my custom leather shoes:
Another White guy, they think
And don't hold my glance

They make way for me
So that their dark hungry frames
And their smelly patchy clothes
Don't invade my privileged spaces

Nothing from their struggling beings
Should waft into my being
And fight my Davidoff.

Even their children
A ball of unkempt hairs and leaky nose
Rarely return my smile

Ma Bharati
This land that I walk on
Is not my land
It is their land
The land of the slowly dying
And the barely living

I should be dead
For the unforgiving sin
Of merely being alive.