when Madras was drowning

This feeling is deceptive
like a timely stranger. 
My hands are useless for 
they are not so long 
to pull you out of hungry
I drown my sentiments, the 
bloody liars.
Did the stunted tamil identity
that I forgot in the kitchen 
store of our old rented house
find its way to Sonipat today?
I push in tears for they are of guilt
of a survivor, safe, watching,
shamefully liking, sharing in instant clicks. 
Tears are easy scripted acts 
for the stage.
how true are my tears for broken bones of 
familiar strangers?
I make poems
while your feet don't reach the ground,
while your lunch floats away,
while you gasp pleading bubbles
to the ceiling- 
What a traitor I must be.