The story of the riot, it seems,
began when i was born.
"Mongolian child," joked extended family -
In their heads
a locked away suspicion
that I actually might have been.
Mum and dad were glad -
"She doesn't look Sikh enough;
Let's name her something innocuous..."

Then came the probing questions.
"Were you caught in the riot papa?
Did they burn your maroon turban?"
"No. No. No.
"But Mr. Mangat and Mr. Sethi
They have horror stories to tell.
The mob said - Saale Sardar!
Burned down Chacha's bakery,
the cloth-shop, butchered their girls."

I was certain somehow,
We would meet the mob
as we came out of the Gurudwara
after we had eaten more than our fill.
They would hold us by the throat,
Slash, rape, kill and
leave us to rot near Ulsoor Lake.
But see, I would be alive,
alive enough to beg at traffic signals,
and begin all over.
Orphaned Sikh child with small eyes,
waiting for some kind family
to adopt my unusual, heroic story.

But stories of such terror
are still only told by distant relatives,
and as we came out of the Gurudawara
every fated Sunday afternoon,
I would drop my coins
into a child's begging bowl
and ask if we could take him home.

This poem didn't go down too well at the workshop or with a few people who read it.