A child in the midst of age-euphoria
Stood stranded in the Bricklane, London.
A question embroiled his mind and in a free-flight
Like a Sky Lark circling in open and clean sky
was crossing him time and again;
The child, young and smart, innovative, promising,
A British-born who couldn’t speak Bangla
Except for a local dialect, parents from Bangladesh,
wondered: Who am I?
In a domino effect came more questions to him,
And the child asked: Where am I from? For whom?
Where is my soil and where to goes my roots?
Do I know my root and our ancestors in Bengal?
Hazi Shariatullah, Titu Mir, Keramat Ali Jaunpuri?
Do I have any root or ancestor here in Britain?
A two-letter word was the answer. No! No! No!
The child fell into a deep dark vacuum.