The color of the Earth that gave birth to me,
The color of me.
I am born of the revolution that stirred
The dust under my feet into a
I am ingrained with a history that has taught
Me to map out myself after two hundred
Years of submission.
I am watered with the values that have fought
To survive even as the world hurls past them-
I am everything my country has been.
Yet when my identity does not identify with
The one my soil has known, I get jailed
And my freedom- denied.
Betrayal now doesn’t only taste like section 377,
It tastes of my mother’s bitter words that question
My character because decades of prejudice
Have filtered down to her.
It tastes of an unnerving silence that screams
From within a tremendous hollow in me doubting
My worth and muting my confidence.
It’s feels like knowing who I am yet being
Apologetic for it till I realize that I am not
An apology that requires validation.
It’s everything that I have been taught not to be
By my country, the place I call home,
But still remain an outcast in.
by Tania Mitra