By Niranjana Balram Menon
You were neighbours turned lovers,
But that love had turned sour,
For you spoke different tongues,
While sharing the same sun.
When your love bore fruit,
The sour seed grew roots,
Only to find the soil dry,
A closed door, unable to pry.
A common ground was found.
We spoke the foreigner's sound.
And although the tree grew tall,
The roots were thin and small.
No wonder I began to sway,
As I left and went away,
For my foundation was poor,
Deaf to my nation's woes.
That's how the forest degenerates,
When diversity disintegrates.
Well, it helps in the factory,
Where they try to mould more like me.
And now many trees have died,
The land desecrated and dry.
Fear not, I am a perfect fit,
In this new land where I now sit.
( Born to a Malayali father and a Tamil Mother, "The Politics of Language" describes my estrangement from my native tongue(s), as English became my first language. This is a poem from my unpublished collection of poems around the theme of colonisation and how Indians need to return to themselves, in order to build a new India that works for all of us. It is based on my own experience, living abroad for 7 years in Europe, and now choosing to return at 26 to fall back in love with my culture, my country and myself. )