घुड़सवार

The wooden boards here smell of my sweat,

the nails have scratched my skin,

and I have tended with care

the overgrown front yard.

Yet the welcome mat memorized

only the grooved soles

of my battered shoes.

When I arrived,

I stood at the doorway,

invitation trembling in hand,

my oversized suitcase sweating

inside the scanner.

A buffet was laid out on the table.

The tablecloth sagged,

currency notes stapled to the hem.

The room smelled of printing ink.

Earlier, my steps were hesitant,

backward glances at loved ones,

eyes scanning both sides of the road

for fingers poised to crush me

on the way to my new home.

The load pressed on my head,

grit blurred my vision,

and grains of sun clung

to my lashes.

Yet I learnt to see

through wedges between skyscrapers,

trained my lungs to breathe

sterile air.

Today, my legs are stuck in red tape.

I might be tossed in a black trash bag,

dumped at the street-corner bin,

or sent “home”—

a place untouched

by my sweat.