I feel dirty. Disgusted with myself. Every time I pay someone, something…under the table. Every time I have to beg and plead for something that is rightfully mine. When I have to coax someone to do his job. I hate myself. I just want to get away from this country. Jai Hind.

But when I look at the queue outside the embassies and the way immigrants are treated by the security, I get a foretaste of what to expect. Bile rises up.

Maybe I’ve become insensitive Or is it that I am too sensitive? Maybe the grime and dirt and corruption has seeped into my body through every open pore. Maybe all the water that flows from the neighboring state will not be enough to wash it clean. I just don’t give a @#$% now.

I hate myself when I see my friends and neighbours set aflame and divided in terms of caste, creed, religion and language by a few driven by greed.

I hate myself every time I see a uniformed doorman whose only job is to salute every @#$ that passes through. And then bow low in expectation of a grimy note.

I hate seeing remnants of quaint, moronic customs left behind by the overlords, quickly grabbed and adopted by desi ones.

I hate myself when I have to bear all dust and heat and stand in a queue to vote. And find that there is none worthy.

I hate myself when I see a job done here not getting it’s due, nor the respect it deserves, while the same job done outside the country gets rave reviews.

I hate myself when I am preached to and asked to save my soul while my heart longs for a little affection.

I hate myself when I have to fight for every single right.

I hate myself when I have to bend every rule to survive.

I hate myself when I have to be corrupt and corrupt others.

I hate myself when I stand helpless knowing fully well that the law is impotent.

I hate myself for loving this place so much and calling it home.

I hate myself having kept quiet when I should have spoken.

I hate myself for being dignified and calm when I should have fought.