I was born in the city of Bombay,
whether or not you accept this one fact,
as you accept the fact you have one life,
simply put, Bombay no longer exists,
born to emigrate to lifelong exile,
on the one hand, I am just who I am,
reality sheds its layers like skin,
not only the snake knows about rebirth,
if I imagine myself as elsewhere,
nothing would ever be the same, random,
to grow up is to accept an imprint,
humans, like ducklings, imprint with others,
enter the random pattern of placement,
cast a net far and wide, nowhere you go
inside that perimeter will you find
the conditions of your present nature,
yet, look outside the net and you will see
only mirrors of who you could have been,
for geography shapes our state of mind.
Bombay offers only a beginning,
only a place to start, as anyone
marking time with a calendar will note,
butter melts with heat and turns into oil,
as we change from solid into liquid,
yesterday, I accepted my absence.
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