By Srija Ghorai
School is a hand grenade, and the hands, are your only home
You look forward to seeking
Shelter while pondering
About a solid ground.
You lost the key on the way back while tracing the length
Of your alloyed arms,
Because handshakes do not fit
In well anymore, or maybe, Incivility lays hidden at the corner of their dutiful grins.
The assemblies imitate the fancy Coachella theme based on your Appearance and life history,
That serves no identity of its own.
Invitation cards addressing
Your vital address has been
Crushed under the weighing Columns of income per annum.
Costly aprons broadcast Meatheads thrashing homemade Cakes with champagne stained Shoelaces,
In the approval of fallacies of coronations,
One year at a day.
Coincidentally.
One day at a year,
Three days worth stale samosa in the approval of dignities of celebration
The homeless child rejoices, While the mother makes a grand toast on their prevailing hunger.
Rolled up sleeves and ironed Handkerchieves reeking
Dior perfumes symbolise
Modern royalty that's born out of A pleasure most of us dream about,
A privilege that's being denied.
Loyalty sneaks in for
Comfort in torn and shabby Uniforms
With broken badges attached to it
Concocted out of scratch.
I bite my tongue,
Filling my lower jaw like a wishing well with agony and bare necessities,
Unlike paper boats and pennies.
Until my teeth forget the taste of chewing.
Silence is a life sentence,
And you don't like gambling in the Language of bargaining death,
You shoplift it in dumb charades Rather.
My ten rupees worth classmate Notebook loves fashioning
Like that Of my father's
Crispy cheque books,
But it would never get to know
The sole purpose behind the Undersigned name that reads-
Stealthing thrift.
(A family is broke enough to discern for money in the crevices of each other's souls while budget worksheets remain dogpiled at the dining table.)