By Aayushi Rawat
Deepak!
A sweet lady’s voice fades in the background
As I dash through the dingy streets of Shahdara,
Into a house with cracks and crevices—
Lingers the smell of dal-rice.
The sun sets on the horizon;
Darkness desolates me,
As I sit under the solitary street light.
A letter to God is what I write:
“Dear God, I want to be police.”
Dinner scenes soon set in:
Leftover rice mixed with salt and water.
Mother turns away her face,
Perhaps to hide a teary eye:
“Papa is on his way with the dal.”
I still sometimes wait for that dal.
A man arrives, drenched in dirt;
Air chokes on the stench of feces.
I storm off in disgust
His head bows down in shame.
He descends into darkness daily—
Dives that should've been divine,
Now merely a dip of death.
Toxic fumes ingest his lungs;
Is this the price for my dal-rice?
Years later, condolences reach my doorstep—
His photo covered with a garland,
Yet his frame enshrouded in filth
There's no dignity even in death.
Life of a Dalit so remains;
His son wanders the same lanes.
The old rusty cabinet still holds
A sweet blast from the past—
Bittersweet note with faded ink:
“Your name is your identity, Deepak.
Better not lose it all.”
This grim legacy is all I blame
In the end, I lost my name.
In the next lifetime, maybe I shall smile
At a chance for this inner child
To say Just for Once:
Hey, look, I didn’t lose it all.