Who are my people?
This is a poem I wrote one month into the fellowship. The names have been changed for obvious reasons.
Who are my people?
Who are my people? Who are they, frankly?
From what I know about them, do I even know them really?
Forget really, I don’t know them completely,
Who am I, to even tell their story?
Only a month has it been, since I’ve been around
There are days though, when my feet are below the ground.
To think of what’s been, before I was here,
Violence, malnutrition and harmless cheer.
The narrow lanes of Kashewadi, lead to many a house,
Where I’ve met some of my people, who just want to get out.
Out, of this place, that they openly call a hellhole,
Iqra’s mother is scared, to leave her daughters home alone.
Anil’s mother also feels, that out is the only way to go,
I asked her why, she says “it’s no place to raise a child”.
Then what is this place, with its history of strife,
Where my people live, but what is this life?
For my people, brawls are usually a way of life,
Many identify power, as willingness to fight.
The present baffles me, what about the past?
Go ahead, google ‘Kasewadi’, the confusion won’t last.
“20 vehicles damaged in mob rampage”
“Tension in Kashewadi after youth is killed”
“Five arrested for house break-ins”
“ATS detains top ‘Maoist operative’”
But darkness is only, the absence of light,
There’s Arpita who proves, that the pen has might.
Problems aplenty, solutions to find,
Together, with belief, my people can fly.
To see them take off, can’t say I’d be there,
But to be a propellant, I’d do more than my share.
So that was the story, of my people, as I know it,
There’s more to it, with time we’ll unfold it.
Dreaming while awake, I’ve done that a lot,
Now it’s time to get to work, to give it all I’ve got.
The roots will take time and spread slowly,
Let’s plant those seeds, and nurture them daily.