The Politics Of Language
By Niranjana Balram Menon

 

You were neighbours turned lovers,
But that love had turned sour,
For you spoke different tongues,
While sharing the same sun.

When your love bore fruit,
The sour seed grew roots,
Only to find the soil dry,
A closed door, unable to pry.

A common ground was found,
We spoke the foreigner's sound,
And although the tree grew tall,
The roots were thin and small.

No wonder I began to sway,
As I left and went away,
For my foundation was poor,
Deaf to my nation's woes.

That's how the forest degenerates,
When diversity disintegrates,
Well, it helps in the factory,
Where they try to mould more like me.

And now many trees have died,
The land desecrated and dry,
Fear not, I am a perfect fit,
In this new land where I now sit.

.

 

Our Tools Are Faulty

The General has left,
He has given us our freedom,
He has left behind the canvas,
To paint our own path forward.
This canvas,
That is not blank,
No worries,
Tools, he has left behind,
His tools.
We will use them to wipe clean,
To rebuild,
Only when I try to bring down the wall he built,
It is my hammer,
Not the wall,
That breaks.

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Niranjana Balram Menon from India is an environmentalist, writer, and diasporic-now-returned daughter of India. Born and raised in Chennai, she spent seven years living abroad before returning to explore what it means to love herself, reclaim her identity, and co-create the culture that shapes her homeland. Her debut poetry collection, Native Roots in Exile, opens a conversation about the longing, rupture, and re-rooting that shape the experience of leaving and returning home—especially in the Indian context. Niranjana holds a B.Sc. in Environmental Science from Wageningen University & Research and has worked in the fields of systems thinking and social entrepreneurship in the Netherlands. She is now relearning her mother tongue Tamil.