The year I was born smelled like teen spirit.
The year that rang the death knell for communism in the Eastern Bloc.
The year of defiance in Tiananmen Square, China.
Of Satanic Curses and Disputed Verses.
The month I was born carried the scent of rain on parched earth,
That delicate, fleeting fragrance-petrichor, they call it.
But I prefer to spill my words abundantly.
Be frugal with money, not with language-
Safdar Hashmi might have thought so too.
He never minced his words.
How could he, when his years were stolen far too soon?
And yet, the year I was born-1989,
Would be immortalized by a single, haunting image:
Fingers in symphony 