Branded by Migration,

Migrating Like Brands.​​​

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I am a migrant. 

Not a son of the soil... nor a bashinda of the paada...

neither a hasti of a Mumbai basti...

And the brands I work on...

they are migrants too, aren’t they?

Coming from an unknown place,

searching for a place to own,

wondering about the means of survival,

hungry for opportunities to rise, 

trying to carve a place in someone’s heart,

sometimes, trying to create a niche.​

Sometimes they just scratch the surface,

letting out a meow or a bark, or a yelp,

vying to be heard in the melee,

like me, searching for ideas,

insights and expressions that say,

"I have something! Something new."

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As the brands and I vie for

our independent voices,

are we merely seeking acceptance?

Or are we trying to carve a kingdom of sensation

in the midst of armies of information?

Are we blowing our own horn

or are we tapping into that unknown part of the human mind

that runs simply by means of attraction, distraction, desire and love?

That part... the scientists call the limbic system,

primal, unnerving, surprising,

defying control, urging us to take control

of that which we love and want...

pushing us to tower as the master of our destinies,

by carrying on many, many mutinies.

 

The brands and I...
we're used to the heckling...

habits, other entities, nay sayers,

we stand up to them all,

we choose to push forth 

by creating something original,

something that's never been said or felt before.

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It needs to be done. 

Because all around are spiels, 

on how to live,

on how to like,

on how to mesmerise,

on how to dramatise,

or keep silent and surmise...

all around are scriptures

on how to chew old, vestigial perspectives,

and colour the streets red 

with their corrosive spit.

​

So we march, the brands and I,

in the face of mass-culture's changing demands,

hovering around probables and improbables,

sculpting from the stream of our sweat,

carving streams of insights from the river of nights not slept,

scaling mountains of anxiety lined with forests of pages inked blue,

Aware that we can never be too comfortable because someone's waiting their turn to displace you.

 

So we're found

always making a start, and never finishing,

because when it comes to

the mines of thought, ideas, insights, perception,

there isn't really a finish line. 

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Will we find that which will make us belong?

Will we become mere nuggets in a larger dialogue?

Or will we creates the DNA that will become

the thing to engage with, talk about?

Will someone take us home,

Making us a part of their daily joys,

their occasional cries? 

Will someone make us the reason for their comfort? 

Will someone embrace us as the spring

which creates the summer of their laughs?

​

Well... we'll keep trying... we migrants...

the brands and I...

to create with our shadows even in the dark.