The Wrong Son

I’ve deep respect for my mother,

but should I respect her only because I was conceived in her womb and stayed there for  long ?

No, my respect to her has reasons far beyond mere gratification of that time when I was not even a conscious being.

I’ve deep respect for my mother, not because she gave birth to me, but because she showed me the worth of life.

I’ve deep respect for her because I’ve followed the way she lives, with love peace and harmony

I respect her because she was never corrupt, never discarded the poor and ever tolerant,

Never demanded me to stand up with respect every time I heard her name.

So I wonder, is it ungrateful to tell her that the drapes of her sari is not perfect?

Is it disloyalty if I tell her that her hair clip is not clipped straight?

Is it wrong to criticize her on her faults, even if after I get down to my knees to fix her drapes?

Even if I used advanced vectors to achieve a perfect straight line for her hair clip?

Then why is it wrong when I say it to my mother nation?

Why am I branded an ungrateful anti national when I say her drapes are marred with corruption and ignorance?

Why am I wrong when I tell her that the hair clip is not straight due to her troubles to assimilate diversity?

Is it wrong that I get angry at my mother if she kept slipping and falling into the same pit even after me warning her not to take that road a 1000 times?

Oh I get it, I’m wrong because I’m not her only son.

Look closer and see the fine line that divides people who demand reasons to take pride in and people who are sworn to take pride without reason.

What are you asking me to be proud of?

The rich heritage and culture we hold?

Neither Arjuna, Ashoka nor their disciples helped my sister when she screamed on the streets of this womb.

I see no Maharana Pratap or Mahabali helping the poor for a night’s meal

because the hands of the past doesn’t feed the mouths of the present.

But please don’t call me an anti-national/ Pakistani with a communist agenda,

Please don’t ask me to Quit India, because I demanded reasons and questioned and protested.

Because I don’t think my mother would have thrown me into the abyss when I kicked her from inside telling something’s not right here, NO

There are times when I’m proud of this nation, when ISRO launched 104 satellites in one rocket, i felt proud that we still feel many could rise within one entity.

But I’m not proud that I’ve to be scared of my brothers to tell this poem, because I told our mother’s bindi has gone too far right.

I took pride when my brother brought home medals, I took pride every time we showed the world that our diversity is our strength and not just a political tool.

I’ve cried and wept watching the same patriotic movies you did, empathized with the same stories of martyrdom you’ve heard

I’ve stood in the sun as long as you did in school for assemblies, I’ve stared at its heat just to see my flag fly in the wind.

So you don’t have any fucking right to tell me that I don’t love my mother.

I’m sorry mother, sorry that I couldn’t help my brothers and sisters, couldn’t make them understand that we being born here alone does not make this country the greatest.

Couldn’t make them feel entitled to demand reasons.

They in turn turned to these fanatics, one true powerful leader, swastikas blooming into Lotus’s, antisemitism to Casteism, false nationalism.

I’m sorry mother that here what I enjoyed ingesting became a brand of my patriotic infidelity.

I’m sorry that the statures of truth has become mouth pieces to vested interests both foreign and national.

I’m sorry that this nation does not get to its knees anymore to fix your drapes mother.

Only because they are all busy fighting and branding each other. Caught up in this politically orchestrated shitstorm.

And I’m sorry that I have to see you standing there with your imperfect drapes, weeping about the children you lost fighting to set you free,

hoping that they never see what their brothers has thus become.

Jai Hind

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