Whites

White saris, Mum saves them for funerals in her collection of mostly reds, bright yellows.

Her lucid logic prompts her to wear whites, red is sacrilegious.

Matters, too bright for the eyes, reds make the living worth, attendees and socialites.

Head to toe, the dead are bound in white loincloths.

Roots

Rooting for the underdog, you do today, are the very people evicted from your land when Father built your house many years ago.

You live in this mansion as your advocacy for slum-people continues to grow.

The slums–taken over, crushed ruthlessly, hapless people made to flee by the government of the day.

The very place where you live today is rooted in rottenness, as you continue to root to mitigate the suffering, driven from one slum to another.

Now you know your own unmistakable roots, as you look down from your golden nook.

Scar

All I did was try to reconcile my fractured family.

You accused me of throwing you under the bus.

Did I? I didn’t throw anyone under the bus but tried to drag them out to keep peace rather, wouldn’t you say?

It was I who threw myself under in the process, hoping that you would stand up for me one day.