“for those who muted their own legacy”
in a high-rise hive of glass and chrome,
he files his roots beneath “unknown.”
his name, once wild as monsoon rain,
now clipped and styled for urban gain.
the syllables he shed like skin,
once sacred, now a source of sin.
that surname – a rusted bell of caste –
he muffled it to move up fast.
the gods he knew now wait outside,
their chants replaced with lo-fi tide.
no mustard oil, no turmeric flame,
just scented soap and borrowed fame.
his feet once kissed the rural dust,
now tread on tiles scrubbed clean of trust.
each echo in his sterilized room
hums like a hymn denied its bloom.
he dines with men who raise their glass
to claim, “oh caste? that’s centuries past.”
their laughter – clinking casteless wine –
can’t taste the poison in the brine.
he nods, and smiles with well-tamed grace,
while hiding the tremor behind his face.
their heritage is worn with ease,
his stitched in shadows, out of lease.
he irons his accent, tailors his tone,
sells himself clean, down to the bone.
but no matter how sharp the suit or shoe,
the mirror still mutters, “they don’t know you.”
at night, beneath a borrowed quilt,
he dreams of buffaloes and silt.
of temples carved by unlettered hands,
of fireflies bright in guttered lands.
but wakes to walls too white to hold
the soot and spice of stories old.
he swallows tears, like bitter ghee,
because even grief must be bourgeoisie.
the city has taught him how to hide –
with passwords, paychecks, practiced pride.
yet in his silence rings the toll
of culture censored from the soul.
one slip, one drop of native sound,
and masks he built come crashing down.
for caste is not just skin-deep stain,
it walks with marrow, breeds in brain.
he’s not ashamed of where he’s from –
just scared of being asked to run.
to flee the boardroom, burn the bridge,
return as label, live on fringe.
his heritage – a whispered ache,
a scroll he’s not allowed to break.
so he keeps it locked, behind his name,
and hopes his kids won’t do the same.
but guilt – a guest that overstays –
now sits with him on salary days.
because for every box he’s dared to tick,
there’s blood beneath the metric click.
and so, within this sterilized cell,
he breathes a truth he’ll never tell.
yes, the closet hides the name they hate –
but also, everything that made him great.
Rishabh Dubey 'Kridious' 