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 pajama 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 none-ness holding the whole psyche in a viciuos 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
