It has been a stiff climb, chiselling steps_ both by heart and charter;_ yet the cliff still seems eluding.Today, I see myself in a cage,_ scrawled with a tattoo — a stigma to me,_ not erased, but paraded by them_ to use me as a pawn_ in the murky game of numbers.A meal shared, night halt at my hut_ may generate a feeling of nearness;_ yet it evaporates in the trail_ of the departing motorcade.Memorials built far away_ intend to capture imagination,_ but the sense of wonder reflects_ not on life flowing on the ground.That leaves me oscillating between_ the two ends of the spectrum:_ bridging the gap, hedging the boundary.The part evolves within confines of rights;_ the whole hesitates to offer its embrace._ And the divide stays put.How long this cliff hanging, waiting_ for the route allured by them!_ Let me pledge to propel my flight_ from the periphery of history_ to the centre-stage all on my own.
—A.K. Das