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A poem about my version of India

My India

600125_10151092095016133_1221264550_nby Ronatani25 Aug 2013

I’ve got a shipwrecked heart,
A pirouetting ravine.
Superfluous emotional morphine running up my spine.
I walk with a pin under every nerve,
Polar shifts in my soul,
An internal compass in my psyche, pointing me home.

To sun burned necks coated with pickled spices of pain,
As the free flood sewers narrowly flow by
The newly opened 5 star Mariott Hotel. Mumbai.
New shopping malls built with the bones of our parents,
As their children drag ragged pillows through the streets to etiquettely wipe their
Nose.
Guilting the wasted foreign man to some change for
Who?

As Billionaires lounge in buckets of chilled air
munching on saucy Italian,
The country folds on its own corrupt fat belly.

Soil is red. Red from blood or paan?
Koi bhat nai yar, A 20/- haircut.
The wheel starts again.
Click click ching on the meter as the rickshaw hurries me away to my friends!

As we rule the long orange days of our teenage years,
first kisses and dreams.
There is no need for extra when this is the ordinary-
A monsoon future arrives and slowly departs me from this home.

And the day arrives in another state.
Calm strength from god infused in whispering air.
Deafening time with the sound of a billion and one hands trying to feed a billion and one mouths
Scooping and shaping each mouthful as not to sin
As we Incinerate our lungs from the incomplete carbon roadside combustion
On the way to a market over run with a day’s deliverance of happy chaos and old friends.

Maybe one day,
when my lungs are filled with air hotter than my blood,
The day when my skin colour is not one from a community but of a country.
I will rise in that arid wind, dance the cleanse of that monsoon rain,
I will beg the sun to melt the night and give me back my paradise.

But my paradise
lives in a place which no man knows,
a place when time doesn’t grow until first seared in a scorched silver sunset.
Where beggars are common as the common
sense of punctuality,
And who you are isn’t defined by
Who you wear?
Who you smell like?
Who drives you?

But by when you wake and never again wish to sleep.

Imagine a nation.
Imagination
is my only brush,
my only ticket and only friend.

He and I will live
forever in
my
India.