By Mansi Plaha
Deep, dark ocean—
Greys floating on top,
Blues at the bottom.
I have not seen it — I say,
All day, every day.
Every day I walk
With appropriate gusto
For the job.
“Did you see my watch?” they ask.
I have not seen it, sir — I say,
Much to their dismay,
All day, every day.
Strutting in my father’s shirt,
Half open,
And the belt
Barely holding on to my invisible tum.
My mother — she dead.
The belt once, only once,
Touched her skin.
“Have you seen a silver chain, son?”
I have not seen it, madam,
I say,
All day, every day.
Wait.
They call behind me.
My dirty nails dig deep
Into the metal detector
Resting on my neck.
Dry lips, parched throat,
The sweat pools on my back.
No. I repeat.
My head sways.
I have not seen it.
All day, every day.
I live by the Ganges,
The home of the gods,
Where flowers float
But idols are lost.
The water’s pure—
Yet it fails to make me so.
Maybe my silent prayers fall short.
The ones with empty pockets
Find no home.
“Did you take her silver chain?” they say.
I have not—
All in vain.
So, I run away
From the Ganges,
My metal rod,
And from the home of gods.
I won’t stop until
I find my own
Home of gods.