Roots undefined I wandered through life A street child A beggar of righteousness A prayer for justice
Alone Rags I called my clothes The sidewalk Concrete I called my home Every passage in the Bible Referring to the Orphan Became my first and last name
Roots dug deep Planted in my soul A heart that knew the home of suffering A soul that knew the roots of abandonment A reality to the image of poverty A body that grew in hunger.
So I searched through the meadows To find my mother, Nature I flipped through the pages of the Bible To find my Father, God I sought out the love From my brothers and sisters, Mirakee My family became poetry My ancestry became love My roots became all the hope I dreamed of
My genesis The source of my river The beginning My soul’s sun awakening Embedded seeds planted In the scriptures of writing Trees soaking up the nurturing Wisdom of prophetic poets
Love became the deepest root Of my soul The place that I defined as home.
The day I landed in the covid speciality hospital with my sick dad was the most surprising day of my life. I saw people carrying their loved ones from one place to the other while somehow every once in a while stretchers carried away a body wrapped in white plastic bags and covered from nose to toes in tapes hiding every detail of the person's identity. I had been to hospitals before and always found a way to get my mind off from the person in my family who was admitted there. But this time I couldn't talk to nobody. The air was filled with suspicion in which we sanitized our hands every few hours and didn't pull off our masks the whole day. Dad was getting along well with other patients and I was happy to see him healing. But somehow a sense of loss always loomed over. And then I met Sameer. As I told you we didn't talk inside the hospital so the only way to meet someone was walking to a tea stall across the road outside. This speciality hospital was in the most remote area of the city. It was supposed to serve as a center for cancer treatment but was pulled into operation long before the construction was complete during the first covid wave. Thank God it was before the second surge happened, things have gone quite wrong after that in all cities including mine across the country. And I was telling you about Sameer. He was a 24 year old from a distant village of our district from where he had to take four different rickshaws to bring his sister to the hospital. It was the morning the doctors pronounced his sister dead. There was a look of devastation in his eyes as he looked at me but a smile spreading across his face hid everything behind a beautiful veil. We talked about the weather, the beautiful scenery around, how we had spent our days and much more until all words dried out in our throats and silence persisted in the winds blowing between us. Then as an afterthought he said, "It's just funny how little it takes it lose someone and how much it takes to keep them. Life's unfair everywhere if you look closely." I answered, "I agree but there's always more to life than just people." He nodded and said, "One day you'll understand there's nothing more precious you can earn in life than a few people who'd love you ceaselessly." We got back to the hospital and upon seeing me doctors said they had to shift Dad into the ICU. The night I spent wide awake on the door of his ward was the night I come to know how much I really loved him. There were days when I prayed that God took him away from us, because I hated him for how he despised me more than he despised anything. Don't judge me, please, I never had a good relationship with my father. We were like completely different personalities put together for a test. But after that night everything changed. No matter what you think about people, you know their value only when you come to the brink of losing them one day. And after all these months I know that earning a few loved ones is the most precious earning one can ever make. He got well in a few days and I just wish life wasn't so keen at teaching me lessons always the hard way. But still, what's life if it doesn't seem unfair? What's a lesson if it doesn't hurt?
I'm a mere bloodstain parching on the shoulder of a German warrior near the backstreet of Volgograd who lost his life in the Battle of Stalingrad while mumbling on the hem of victory and defeat.
You're the teardrop tugging at those eyes and shrugging two cheeks of that russian mother who lost his son in that battle and her heart is becoming a hotbed of abiding trepidation which looks more blood-curdling than the destruction of German.
And we're the metaphors of a forgotten war poetry cruising off the cost of mysteries and miseries with half-wakened ashes and fully-gnawed deathbeds while oohed and aahed with screams, weeps and phantoms but still waiting for some yellow tulips to caper on the courtyards of demises.