Contours of Language

Sifting through multitudes of strangers,
Longing for a familiar face, a smiling acceptance,
An existence away from home,
Calls for a course correction, isn’t it?

For weeks, I have plied on the roads less traveled,
Meeting people, then distancing them,
Walking the spectrum of small talk, appearances,
Yet, I find the connection missing.

This city is a labyrinth of souls,
Driven by capitalism, flocking to pots of gold.
Drains the life away, seeping you deeper,
Into an endless race built on casual ambiguity.

No one knows what brought them here,
Chasing greens in a city of dreams,
Like a traveler pursuing a mirage,
No end in sight, but the chase goes on.

In this city of dreams, I long for a smiling face,
A caring pat on the shoulders bogged down by expectations,
A melodious voice, a koyal perched on a twig,
And a greeting in my own language.

A begaana in a buzzing, bustling city, yearning for home,
Smiling through teary eyes, wishing to meet his family again,
Crossing the contours of language,
when he couldn’t find his own.

Koyal: (Hindi)cuckoo, known for her melodious voice; begaana: (Urdu) unknown, foreign, alien.