When all the multiplication and division is done
Something remains behind
A small leftover
A remainder

It is as if destiny
Did all those calculations on my behalf
And after making my parents disappear
Left me with this tiny integer

Which has nothing to do with my parents
Or the town of my birth
Or what language they spoke
Or my relatives or any other member

With the passing of years
I realised
That the numeral was my identification in the orphanage
My destiny’s tragic reminder

I have grown up now and carry a name
Given to me by the warden
And after that the family name appears unashamedly
That mere number

Oh! How I detest, how I hate
That single digit, that sign of bondage
Which stands between me
And my real father, my sweet mother

What were they really like
Were they nice, were they kind
Did they love me ever
Did they even for once ponder

I stay rooted on the ground
While my eyes scan the skies
Looking for clues to my genesis
And my mind in bitter disorder

Subir Chakraborty / 8th July 2018