CASTE TRAFFICKING
They are all there,
the products have been
properly packaged in
customised costumes and
customs. Vanniyaar,
Chettiyaar, Naadar, Iyer,
Iyengar, You have
them all. Name it,
it scrolls down
your eyelid’s hyperlink.
It is a crowded place,
each day new identities
are in demand, mixed
blood, split ends joined
together. The switch is
very easy, buy them,
wear them on, freeze
them into your values
and attitudes, it becomes
useful, it really does.
I walk down past
shouting hawkers, the
ground burns, get heated
up beneath my feet,
fleshes on my thighs have
been consumed by liposuction
devices. The building has
got the sunlight arched
on its forehead between
eyebrow arrows and the
floor becomes sick with
measle freckles. I feel
my Oesophagus tensely
twitching. I close my eyes,
I should be transported to
another place away from this.
I close my eyes, leave pauses
in between my breath, perfect
as a composed piano music.
I open them. It is the same
taste of shoe flower and
sand swimming in my mouth.
Nithya Raghavan is pursuing her third year BBA at Heriot-Watt University, Dubai. Her hobbies are reading and writing. Her poems have been published in www.poemhunter.com, www.fictionpress.com (pen name: Ghost of words), Muse India (Jan-Feb.2010), and Kritya (Volume six, Issue 1, July 2010). She has also published articles for Nxg, The Hindu, letters to the editor in Khaleej Times and Gulf News, and a column in Khaleej Times.
They are all there,
the products have been
properly packaged in
customised costumes and
customs. Vanniyaar,
Chettiyaar, Naadar, Iyer,
Iyengar, You have
them all. Name it,
it scrolls down
your eyelid’s hyperlink.
It is a crowded place,
each day new identities
are in demand, mixed
blood, split ends joined
together. The switch is
very easy, buy them,
wear them on, freeze
them into your values
and attitudes, it becomes
useful, it really does.
I walk down past
shouting hawkers, the
ground burns, get heated
up beneath my feet,
fleshes on my thighs have
been consumed by liposuction
devices. The building has
got the sunlight arched
on its forehead between
eyebrow arrows and the
floor becomes sick with
measle freckles. I feel
my Oesophagus tensely
twitching. I close my eyes,
I should be transported to
another place away from this.
I close my eyes, leave pauses
in between my breath, perfect
as a composed piano music.
I open them. It is the same
taste of shoe flower and
sand swimming in my mouth.
Nithya Raghavan is pursuing her third year BBA at Heriot-Watt University, Dubai. Her hobbies are reading and writing. Her poems have been published in www.poemhunter.com, www.fictionpress.com (pen name: Ghost of words), Muse India (Jan-Feb.2010), and Kritya (Volume six, Issue 1, July 2010). She has also published articles for Nxg, The Hindu, letters to the editor in Khaleej Times and Gulf News, and a column in Khaleej Times.
