THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Dear reader,

Here is a story I have not told in a while.

It is a story about magic and monks and spice boxes.

about art that held time captive,

about commoners who help strangers without a motive.

A song of praise for everything that dares to live.

Here's my secret, listener, I love this country.

Despite her overwhelming flaws that

confront me every time I walk by a shabby road,

question me, every time a woman cowers.

I love both the debris and the treasures of my home.

Because there are humans on the border,

fencing their home with every auricle and ventricle in their heart.

Because somewhere, in the deep blue sea,

There is still a trace of the martyrs’ ashes.

Martyrs who gave too much,

Ashes that freed the country.

I love it because of the poets,

who wrote under a flickering but persistent lamplight.

Because of the paintings, the Madhubani, the Shakuntala,

that document life itself.

I love her, you see, because although she is all marble castles and elaborate forts,

She is also reverent in humility.

She is magnificent yet so close knit,

Diverse yet so one.

I see these tourists racing with time to look at all these monuments.

But who will show them the real monuments?

The India in every yarn of a saree, the India in the decadence of maa’s idli,

the chase of the rickshaw, the sweet, tinted rain and the absolute sorcery in a cup of ginger tea!

Because what is India if not a mountain heap of small treasures!

The jingle of clinking bangles, the fresh blooming lotus,

the hibiscus, the lavender.

A hundred gods, a thousand languages, as ancient as voice itself.

Who will show them the India in me?