Where do I belong?
In this city that is too old
In those hills that are too cold 
Or America
But I am no burly Polish dissident
Nor of cultivated Bengali intellect
Or a Punjabi with a partitioned wallet
Only a rough diamond with festers and sores
Shall I then go to Surat?
Will they cut and polish me into a compliant carat?
Or shall I perhaps take the migrant boat to Antwerp?
Will they let me stay – in a single room above the cafe?
Will I read Eliot by night – and serve tables by day?
Will I find myself a wonderful white woman?
Tender with republican legs and a socialist heart
Will she take me to the galleries and the museums?
Will we share secrets over red wine and scarlet salmon?
Or will I find myself alone and applying for social security
Living under a bridge – with a bottle of cheap whisky
Will centuries of European civilization
Bend down to give me a helping hand?
Or kick me in the ass – and deport me back to this land

It is a strange world – and stranger things keep happening
So none of this is exactly impossible
But it is most likely
That I will have to look in the mirror
And do it by myself
Like so many before me
Like Deep-ma
Because I’m pretty sure
She did it by herself


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Rahul Saikia Written by:

Rahul Saikia is a M.Phil research scholar at the Department of Geography, Delhi School of Economics.

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