The idea of home is so complicated to me; home isn’t here Writing became an expression of my discomfort My body is yellow, white, brown and black You tell me Do you feel my pain? What are words if they aren’t realized? I write to all the younger version of me, you are Even the colour of my dreams scream But, why am I still looking
people look at me like I am from somewhere else.
Where is home?
a language
an arrangement of unbroken rage
writing poetry to question
why?
Poetry to reclaim my identity and to be
home
again.
Is it my skin that betrays or is it my face?
I am still looking for an answer!
How do I respond without making you angry and uncomfortable?
How do I wear a mask that doesn’t even fit me!
Why can’t you, my fellow Indians respond for me?
I want all of you to speak for us.
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.
already
home.
Indian
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.
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
striding
with resilience.
