By Samudrika Patil
One city,
Opening harbours.
While refugees and migrants stranded together,
Hold each other in fetal positions.
No questions asked,
No judgments passed.
Seven islands now closer together,
With masts of cathedrals and churches,
The conspicuous saffron of Hindu temples,
The unmistakable Azaan from the mosques,
And Parsi fire temples,
All pray in unison,
For a place to simply be,
Differences cancel out.
The seven islands now fully merged,
Communities numbering in the hundreds,
Countless languages spoken,
Intricately knitted together in an elusive fabric,
All fall in line,
Without outrage,
Without defence.
Refugees, migrants, partition folks, and people
of the land,
In local barber shops,
Awaiting their turn, dipping biscuits in tea.
Amidst their endless scrambling,
All gather by the shore,
Tempted by the sea breeze into easy indolence.
They dissolve together like sugar in tea,
Like salt in seawater.
While the sun comfortably sets on the horizon.