Are We Human? is my debut poetry chapbook, written from lived experiences, conversations, and observations of urban poverty and everyday life at the margins. These poems do not attempt to explain suffering or offer solutions; they simply bear witness to what exists and what is often ignored. This following note is not an introduction to the poems themselves, but to the conditions and ethical discomforts under which they were written.
From Are We Human?
Poems from urban underbellies, by Indra
Poet’s Note
I do not know what to say.
I do not know what I know.
Urban poverty is brutal. Urban poverty is a curse.
And I do not know what to do about it.
I’ve gone through strange experiences, been confronted with shocking stories, and have made a few honest and enlightening acquaintances here. I’ve seen a birth, I’ve seen a handful of deaths, and for hours together I’ve spoken with friends about how life feels here between these exit points. It is not very nice.
I wanted to begin by saying that all the poems written below are true — that they contain no lies, however brutal they might seem. But I thought again. I haven’t seen all of them firsthand. Most are stories I picked from these people. Scrapes, like a dog. Hungry, like a dog.
I could take the help of Margaret Atwood here and use her words:
“I put into it nothing that people haven’t already done at some time in some place. There is nothing invented out of my twisted imagination.” And, “Everything that happens in this book has happened or is happening someplace in the world. … It’s been really important to me … I had to be able to say, ‘I did not make this up. People do this. People have done this.’”
Because what people can do — and endure — is shocking when one sees it firsthand.
I’ve spoken about this book, these poems, and the world from which I copied them with several people. My sister wanted me to trash these, saying this is not how I should debut as a poet. A kind beta reader was disturbed and needed solace from a good friend. My wife somehow found strength to let me go with whatever I am doing, though none of it had been convenient. A kind friend believed I was on the right path. And a seasoned psychologist advised me to shed my emotionally driven attitude, because it would “break and blast” my brain “sometime soon.”
I don’t know about any of that. I just think these are good pieces, so I’m bringing them forth.
These are not the complete set of poems. There are only 12 here. I couldn’t pull myself together to finish them all. After the eighth, I was breaking apart. I just made four more quickly and scattered them across the set.
May I find the strength to complete the collection someday — or the blessing to forget about all of this.
The illustrations were envisioned by me, but brought to life with the help of free AI tools. I could never have afforded a digital artist. I would have, if I could have afforded it. I have immense respect for artists — all kinds — but not much money.
Also, I wanted to thank the people because of whom this was possible, but that would be wrong. I neither had a joyful journey nor treat these poems as part of a “literary career.” This is simply me holding up a mirror to what I have seen and heard — in the only form of art I think I am good at. So, I’ll leave it at that.
This work is copyrighted, yes. But if these poems mean something to you — you can copy them, post them on your blogs, talk about them in your clubs, use them in your short films — whatever. Just give credit. I only want to connect with people who think and talk about these ideas. I don’t want to miss them.
Anyway, what money can one make, or fame take away, from a few scraps of filthy poems? When we are burning on a pyre or buried deep inside a grave — what remains? These are about people, for people.
So, to all of us.
Cheers.
Lastly…
Life is hard. But it is not a necessity that it should be.
To anybody.
Now,
Come with me,
Let me hold your hand,
and walk you through these dark tunnels.
Indra,
31/12/2025
Are We Human? is now available on Kindle.
The print edition will follow mid-January.
Writings of Indra 