I am reading Indian literature these days and I come upon so many interesting things to read that I am running out of time. I truly am, but come on when am I not running out of time?

So here I am, reading, writing and analysing, or to say trying to analyse the great works of some really great writers, when I fall on yet another piece which I relate to so much, it is like a spitting image, a thought stolen form my mind, and yet I know I am the thief here!

I share here a very, very short poem by A.K.Ramanujan, which played with the strings of my mind today.

Self-Portrait

I resemble everyone
but myself, and sometimes see
in shop-windows
despite the well-knownlaws
of optics,
the portrait of a stranger,
date unknown,
often signed in a corner
by my father.

So yet again the problems of a modern world, problems relating to identity crisis, problems pertaining to knowing yourself, and what not!

Am I the only one, though?