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 waves. 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.