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I can not be son of soil
though I was born here-
I can not be "us"
though I have the same mother tongue

In all official things it is all fine
I dress the same, vote and do work in public service
I pay taxes and represent us in sports or arts
I have no other where I belong
being more alien anywhere else

I even stopped wearing the sacred ash
on my forehead as my granddad used to do
Started with a pajamah leaving dhoti,

my son does not even know what we over years forgot-

everything is alright
until everything is alright- When the time comes
everyone's memory brings up
and history never needs to be dug into-.

The life and sustenance of history is ever on exclusion and suspicion
Or at least so does it perpetuate-
the feeling for roots, escape from noneness
holding the whole psyche in a vicious grip
Rerouting and uncovering
Not knowing why and what of all sojourns
We only know that for the years of living and. written history
You bear the burden and the cross

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