I made a religious issue.
He’s not allowed to love the Mother and Sri Aurobindo.
He’s not allowed to write his poetry
from the divine,
that give you face to miracle.
He’s not even allowed to read his poetry
or see his YouTube videos

the poet takes shape.

He’s being beaten and bruised
to renounce me and these things,
and no one’s here to help him but me,
and they’re threatening me with jail if I go anywhere near him,
but will admit I did not abuse him,
was good to that boy.
They just don’t want him with me
because they have abused him,
and they don’t him to tell me that
so that I tell you.

We cannot have one second together
his mother brags.
Where do we put this on the shelf?
A child’s suicide?
A child runs away?
A child has a heart attack
nervous breakdown?
Or a child who’s dead to the world,
lost his humanity
because his parents killed it?
What kind of man will that make?

Pondicherry,
those are you options.
I can do nothing else but warn you
somethin’s terrible comin’
from that boy
if you deny his right to see me
and be the daddy I am to him,
aka his poetry guide and spiritual teacher.

We need your help.
This boy’s extraordinary
in his reaches of soul.
You could do well to have a poet of this stature.
Poetry the boy?
Imagine poetry the man.
He’s here for you,
and you do not see that.

You think a foreigner raised him,
and now a foreigner wants him back.
Do you every listen to your scripture?
It’s not about being Indian it’s about being human.
It addresses the world.
It takes the hand of oneness
and confronts the world with it.
I have that vision constant in my worldview.
You hate me for it.
I can love unconditionally,
and I can love this boy to safety,
despite your hatred of the foreigner.

In oneness there is no foreigners.
We are each human being,
and I ride your town with that identity,
and I was giving it to this little boy,
a worldview based on oneness,
based on who we are.
We are That you see.
What made India’s past great?
Godmen and Godwomen,
seers that brought down civilization from the Gods,
Rishis that reveal to us
the godly life.

I am not an American I am not a foreigner.
I am a human being through and through,
but I have chosen India as my home
because here the Gods can still communicate with us,
and God had more room to act,
because He is alive in so many hearts,
however narrow they put Him,
however blindly they may see Him.
It’s a devotion in every shop,
in every home,
and even the atheists have their banner,
but this great spirituality
that India carries in her inner waters,
cannot come to the surface a wellspring for all to drink.
You do not allow that.
You are orthodox Hindu,
orthodox Muslim,
orthodox Christian,
orthodox Buddhist,
orthodox Sikh,
orthodox Jain,
and by orthodox you wear a religion
and do not have concrete inner contact
with the God you adore,
where you view him or her real in consciousness,
or your spiritual ideal,
and through signs and wonders
let it guide you through your day.

This was India of old.
“The ancient minds were better,” Nithish says
in one of his poems.
But you just see that as political turmoil.
I’ve given you a boy,
who still needs further development by me,
but who already is a poet,
through his pain,
giving us high glimpses
of India’s rise
to her humanity.

You let his parents throw that away.
You just want the foreigner gone.
How do I speak to you emergency?
My child needs me you see
to bring him back to good and God.
You are hurting him with your silence,
validating his mother’s abuse of him,
his father’s,
validating the worldview to hurt children,
and I just don’t understand your reasoning.
You are not the boss here,
and this is not a hell world,
although in this situation,
it sure seems like it.

Can it get any worse?
This boy could die,
if not his body,
then his heart and mind to humanity.
This boy’s gonna die,
and you’re being warned before that happens.
Pondicherry,
save your child.

Yesterday night
he gave us a poem,
last time his poetry,
and inner dawn.
People were around to see it.
Where is the sensation?
His poetry record
gives us something to think about,
the paradox of time travel.
You can’t put it down
as a hoax.
You can’t even say it’s terrible poetry,
but it’s useless today
because it hits society
where she can’t figure out stuff,
and no one will get alarmed
that this poet’s being killed,
brainwashed, sat on, abused.

No one will believe me,
and no one will question the boy.
We have his mother on record saying,
“You will not tell on me you will tell what I tell you to say.”
Having just been beaten
for talking to me through a window,
he said mother I will do that,
and then he went to someone he trusted
and cried his eyes out,
wanting me,
wanting the abuse to stop,
and I can even tell you who it is to prove my story,
because he’ll lose the only shoulder he has to cry on.

He will have to be questioned with me,
or he will tell no one nothing,
and I’m the foreigner everybody keeps outside.
You do not know what fairness is,
nor do you care
Pondicherry.
You just want to beat your children,
play with their little dinghies,
make them do what you didn’t want to do as a child,
force them to revolve their life around school
and homework,
as though there is no soul purpose,
as though we are just animals
aggrandizing our gain.

I call on you Pondicherry
to give this boy his chance
at poetic greatness,
but we can at least
liberate him from his parents’
abuse of him and constant control,
and give him his heart’s desire,
his soul’s choice,
at least some days in the week with me,
so I can cure him help him heal him,
and prevent his parents from abusing him more.

Why is that an impossibility?
We go right to the roots of what’s wrong with Indian society:
how you raise children,
and make them subservient to parental abuse,
dominance and control.
You slap your children Pondicherry,
and you tell me it’s normal.

Here’s a fish out of the water
of the entire gamut of abuse,
Nithish’s story,
big so you can see it.
I’m askin’ you to take a look,
that look that brings change,
not because you are angry for what you have seen,
but because you have been hit in your very heart center
for the love of a child,
and you see yourself that child
when you went around the house in underpants,
and you see yourself those parents
diddling with his dolittle,
and slapping him because he doesn’t measure up.

I am not accusing you.
I have learned these lessons as one abused
and as an abuser,
larger than life
like this kid shows.
He got the benefit of all that wisdom,
all that handle with care.
I know how to treat children,
like they are the God in the room,
and they just simply love it there,
and this boy misses his daddy
and wants me to protect him,
but I can nothing
except tell you the story
and get down on my knees and ask you for help.
Please help my boy Pondicherry.