I do not wish to be a part of this. Your cars, schools, and desires have proven to be too expensive. If only: we were left to be children, not investments; possible dreams to come true, not rebellions; told to get thinking (devise strategies or futures), not to cower. If only, what you had aspired for was a home of love for love of home. Instead, it was an education in fear. I did not wish to be a part of it. I did not like the price tag put on my sisters and my brothers. I did not like finding out that our house cost this much, both in tangible rupees and your sacrificed bones. You said, “This world is a market.” I could not help but remember who I am outside the forces.

As it appears, it’s this. Outside of the forces, but heralded by them, feeding on them. I am a shrine of my affinities. And when I paint or draw this shrine — planting seeds of mysticism out of bits, data, and of what has been now a perpetual angst — I take it to printers for them to not know what the lump sum I will pay them will be transformed into under bourgeoisie life that I otherwise scoff at. What idols lie worshiping you in your shrine? Skincare? Sick headphones? Maybe a tastemaker’s playlist? A TV that’s always on? Your computer that you clutch on for dear life, and a little conversation? Or do you find talking over social media reductive — too common?

There is a world somewhere. And what if there are no shrines there? Only trees, and streams, and stars, and fire that can quench your thirst, and water that can ignite you. Father please tell me: how much would you put down to draw a line in that sand, penetrate it with your name, and catalogue it as your deed?

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