You described me as
A map of India
Complete with
The Himalayas,
The Deccan plateau,
And a Kanyakumari
Touching a vast sea.
I had dark jewels
And vast wilderness which
Was always to remain tied away.
Then that fateful ship came
And crashed at the port,
At this Kanyakumari
Like colonisers.
And like them, you also
Found Kochi first.
Cochin to you.
You made me
A piece of land
To be worked upon,
A piece of crystal
To be admired from far,
A bit of flesh
To be taken raw.
Mr. Poet, sir, I was Not
Any of these.
I am not a country,
Nor a piece of earth,
I am not dead flesh
Nor a piece of fish,
I am not a thing
To be used again
And again
And again
And again...
Till my expiry date is due.
I was not any of these.
But I became when I was
With you.
And a hopelessly lost piece
Of living flesh and bones
Now seek to surrender,
To be colonised under
Another rule just to feel
Used
Again
And again
And again.
Because now I know not
How to live as me rather than
Your object.
