Unlike most other circumstances which have forced me to write, things which have happened in the more recent past, have compelled me not to.  
While the world may be becoming smaller, the pieces that bring it together, it seems to me, are distancing themselves from each other.
No, its not oceans that are swelling with the tsunami's of our times.
It's about people, ironically, streaming closer in space, who are becoming more distant from each other.  
I don't know what to make of the surge, although an addiction, I must observe, during a rare moment that has come my way to reflect, which, in a sense is taking me away from the real thing.

I have started to understand that the revolution I once believed was going to take me marching into a future...
...which I would never visit in this life time of mine...
...is, as a matter of fact, bringing facts from the past to the fore...
...and I am but only this individual, swaying to the tune of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, with billions...
...just like a rat cannot be told from another...
...I am one of those single beings who should not be apart from the multitudes...
...but sway I do, follow still...
...and the cliff from which I will be left to dive to my end, is not far. 

Yes, the power of the media, the spin of the doctors and the music of the noises that rattle and shake my innards every day, are meant to propel my opinion in one way or another, making me believe in things I would've not otherwise known and making me discard those which I might have adopted.
The world is young, reborn to a trillion wombs, frozen in time, where things are no different from when we were singing and dancing in the rain to the music that rebelled us from our times.
We were fewer in numbers, or so I had thought, but at a party, called a rave now, nothing had changed, nothing ever will.
I lost everything each time I left one place for another, and recoiled to the twist of fate in the new world which I was made to enter through displacement because of folks who thought my introduction to multiculturism would make me a woman of the world of my own next inheritance, little to have ever known that one fine day, everything buried in the unknown of my subconscience was to surface again, to remind me of the selection of memories which I had put to rest long ago, that inside a small screen wide enough to contain a social reality would pop out a person or two a day, whom I had long forgotten, and also wished to die from.
I had a father who moved home every three years as an honest public servant even though I wept and begged him to leave me behind, telling me that this, mix that I faced, of different people and stories in different cities, were constituted to my nation by a bunch of wise men to take us to a place which they had foreseen and that by being true to the will of the written, he was doing his children good, and when I argued with him that the very organization he was being loyal to, held people who never shifted, he would tell me that they were those whom we would always leave behind, because they were the ones outnumbered, people who corrupted the corrupt to keep sitting on the chairs which were no longer meant for them, him never to live to know that we were slowly getting numbered.
I swear I understood multiculturism as a child with a Daddy rowing the boat never against the tide in India, and did not need to go out of my country to know what it takes to bring caste, color and creed together through institution and organization.
It was here, I knew how to experience all languages, food and religions, and it is here, that I see them falling apart slowly. 
I wake up each day to things political, jumping up at me from the social, and begin to question myself as in the sense of how did I allow this to happen.
When we were becoming extinct, why did we not give ourselves the name of another race, which could then stop others from doing this to us, just like all other ethnic cultures do?
Did I lose my origins in the process?
Did I become a new racial animal yet to be given a name because I became united with the place that continued displacement compelled me to live in?
As questions control my mind, and allude to many blank pages of prose, I realize that here is where poetry had been written over the ages, by many an honest man who came to the edge with his truth and then created a metaphor which enabled generations to yet teach their children not to lie. 
I believe in truth, to my honesty which makes me smile within, when sitting at a bar last night, the very young, transformed to the Hazare litany, tells me that Anna is a brand in the same breath as he says that had it not been for the smartness of his colleagues to pull off a scam at his place of work along with him, he would not be in a position to pay the bill for the whiskey he had just got us drunk on.
We may have jumped generations and left the unattended in the underbelly of time because of a revolution which has made us come to face our past, and also brought us to confront the future at the same time, but people have yet to change.
I move on from there, this time neither displaced, nor rooted, but going with the flow of my thoughts which confirmed to me that it is going to be a very long time before the constitution of India, framed by some wise and good men 64 years ago, is understood...
...that we still have a major part of the churn to traverse, that which can be bloody and villainous...
... and that then will be the proverbial moment of judgement, the narrow passage we have yet to dare, where the uneducated will teach the educated.


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