Skip to main content

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. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Hush

You don't have to tell me. I just know. Its that little sniffle that comes through The unexplained pauses The slow responses I know when you call Just because you needed to cry.

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.

That Fluttering of Broken Wings

If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.