When I open my Indian Economics textbook,
The numbers leap out,
The government expenditure, the foreign direct investment, the tax revenue,
All rising higher and higher
I can feel them with my entire body
Till they settle at the base of my throat
Like dust in the wake of dry wind.
They barricade the fear inside my chest
And I wonder - Is it possible to breathe again.
My brain is a swirling mess of statistics,
Interspersed with self-doubt,
Till it drips onto my soul
And no matter how hard I scrub,
There is a spot on the inside of my wrists,
And the back of my earlobe,
Where the humiliation won’t wash off
Instead, it grows stronger
With every beat of my heart
And I wonder – Is it possible to go on from here.
It drips out onto my soul,
Something sticky and hateful that covers me whole
Till I forget where I end
And where the disillusion begins
And I wonder – Is it possible to find myself again.
It is. It is. It is.