In a thatch-roofed house
hidden in a faraway forest
amidst wild birds and animals
I do not live.
My home is a lot like yours
– four pillars that hold up a roof,
a family to call my own,
a bed to rest my tired head.
On my dinner plate, slow-cooked
broths of meat from animals
that belong in the wild
are not served.
My meals are similar to yours
– simmered with care,
powdered with local spices,
laid piping hot.
So when you call me Corona
Chinky, Momo, or Cheen,
Hearing these names
won’t harden my heart.
When you spit fears,
your brewing thoughts of hate,
standing upright in front of you
won’t weaken my knees.
Because I walk into nights of the waning
moon not afraid of those like you;
when rain washes cities clean,
my heart grows, my spirit renews,
and the hope for a kinder world
hums louder within me.
Note: This poem is based on the racial discrimination faced by people of Northeast India and the spike in cases of discrimination during the corona virus pandemic.
*First published in The Little Journal of Northeast India's Summer 2020 issue.
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