Where does Meera belong?

I do not fit in my mother’s courtyard,

nor at the edge of the village well.

The women gather and whisper in silks—

but their laughter does not call me in.

I do not fit among my kin,

whose eyes are on lands and marriages.

Their words are honeyed for other ears.

Mine crave the silence between drumbeats.

I do not fit with the ones I called friends.

Their steps are sure—mine vanish mid-air.

Their games are sweet, their rules are known.

But I am pulled by a flute they do not hear.

I do not fit in the temple crowd,

nor in the market’s noisy mirth.

No bangles for me, no bindis bright—

I wear dust, I wear dusk, I wear longing.

They say: Go to where you belong.

But I have searched the borderlands,

the pilgrim’s road, the saint’s stone path—

none would have me, none would hold me.

Each heartbreak said, “This is the last.”

Each new smile—just a softer knife.

I chased a scent that never stayed.

I chased a name without a face.

Then came the voice—not outside, but within:

Meera, you do not fit

because you are not made for fitting.

You are flame—

not the lamp.

Now I wear my not-fitting like prayer beads.

I sing in the alleys. I dance in storms.

And when I pass someone

whose eyes slide away like startled deer—

my heart bows low.

Because only the exiled

know the signs of exile.

Only the silent ones

can hear the music

between the notes.