A Citizen of Their India
I am the culmination of the Indian dream
because after centuries worth
Of festering culture
A cookpot broth of wafting
Delicacies
All simmering in the passion
Of this place,
One would think it’d come to some good.
But either we kept it waiting too long
Or never let it simmer long enough,
So it went rotten instead,
And when I found myself living
In the magnificent valleys of what our rulers referred to
As The gutters of Islam,
I was expected to pick myself up
And brush off the last remnants
Of the word of Allah from my clothes
-the word that they called muck
And dirty dregs of a rag
That’s worn too thin
The word that they burned in Gujarat
And the word they flung their rods at
in Calcutta.
But don't worry,
I brushed it off my clothes-
It's off now,
Completely
Meticulously
Carefully
Grudgingly.
My daily uniform
Was a healthy serving of Tikas
On my forehead
And healthy servings of harsh
words at my own brethren.
I swapped my Kuran
For a holy book of theirs
That said that same things
In a different language
- old wine in different
Packaging,
Leaving Urdu behind
On the other side
Of the Wagha border.
My name evolved
From Khan to Khanna
Akbar to Amar
and It was
Only then
That I declared that I was
Finally what they considered perfect whole
Embodiment of purity
A citizen of their India.
Then I let them dictate what I could eat
Where I could live
Who I could talk to
What I should say
And I watched as my own people
Made just as ridiculous demands
Of them
I watched
Back and forth
And
Back and forth
And
back and forth
As if the state of my country
Was a fucking Tennis game
-in fact, even if it was
They'd probably make sure it was
Played between Mahesh Bhupati
And Aqueel Khan
Because that's what they'd been reduced to.
If it was an art competition
It'd probably be between
MF Hussain and Anjali Ila Menon
Because they only ever saw the beauty
Of art when it
Was born from hands
Of their own faith.
We all were taught
That our lives
Are a fucking seesaw where one would
Only go up if the other went down,
Where one would Only rise
If the other fell
And we never paused to think
That we could also be
a pair of wings
Meant to work in unison
To pull the other up.
And take flight.
So we sat
Institutionalized,
Fooled,
Disgraced,
And lied to.
Then some of us became the Indian dreams
That they taught us to be
And the others revolted against.
We were dreams
And dreams
And dreams
And nobody ever woke the people
Who created us.
