BY PARUL KAPOOR
A familiar whiff hovers
as I enter through the doors
The dishevelled pantry oozes the aroma of burnt milk
Overflowing on the ancient hotplate
aged and enriched with layers of murky tea
waiting to be poured into cheap white bone China mugs
engraved with the stately seal
The stale draught from the heavy air conditioning
mixed with the fragrance of budgeted air fresheners
A shady concoction emerges
to welcome the privileged
‘Clack-clack’ – the sound of leather boots
reverberate the swanky corridors
Which have seen visionaries walk through
to the doors which say – OFFICIALS ONLY, DO NOT ENTER
The leader enters and we all rise
like the ministers do when the king walks in
The ceremony commences with relaxed conversations
spanning the length and breadth of the globe
subtly hinting their bustling schedules and packed itineraries
While I admire the distinguished and varying tones
which give away hints of sovereignty
The stale air in the room
feels stuffed and overpowering
From the hidden glances
Which inspect my identity
an label it as an outlander
but ask me to follow the herd