The idea of home is so complicated to me; home isn’t here
people look at me like I am from somewhere else.
Where is home?
Writing became an expression of my discomfort
an arrangement of unbroken rage
writing poetry to question
Poetry to reclaim my identity and to be
My body is yellow, white, brown and black
Is it my skin that betrays or is it my face?
I am still looking for an answer!
You tell me
How do I respond without making you angry and uncomfortable?
How do I wear a mask that doesn’t even fit me!
Do you feel my pain?
Why can’t you, my fellow Indians respond for me?
I want all of you to speak for us.
What are words if they aren’t realized?
And realization is a distant dream
A dream to be an Indian
and here I am living despite it all
with a language that comforts me
in a language that sounds familiar.
I write to all the younger version of me, you are
Even the colour of my dreams scream
my blood is Indian
my bones are solid Indian
so, I am writing!
I am protesting as I write
I am protesting about being an outsider in my own land.
But, why am I still looking
for something that will define me?
I can’t find my belonging here.
You will often catch me and many of us
searching for it
In the books and in passports
(Written by Ngurang Reena)