Accident of birth,
God’s hand conjured a curse,
and Mr. Vohra was born with a disease,
called the hunt of self-worth.
Where he’s from they got it skewed,
It makes no sense, it’s real stupid,
They honour love by killing it,
And the village elders play cupid.
Corruption’s a steroid that they gobble down with chips and tea,
He grew paranoid and lost his faith in society,
He saw men pray to devis and put their wives on a leash,
They have voids in place of hearts, filled with fake religion and piety.
So, he left his motherland,
And left his mom back in tears,
Travelled west to a new land,
But time travelled back in years.
The new world was big and it sure was developed,
He thought if he worked hard, he’d be their beloved.
But he got the whole idea wrong,
Like Americans with the Viet Cong,
He believed that he could get along,
With the ones who thought he dealt in bombs.
In the big old Canadian clock,
He’d never be a working cog,
But he toiled on and on and on,
Worked till dusk and then till dawn,
Wanted to call this land his own,
But he knew that this was just a loan,
In crowds is where he felt alone,
Paid a rent to live in this nation,
Struggled to build a home.
They had him in the hunt for cream,
Sold him the American dream,
Then took his blankets, pillows, and sleep,
The shepherds rounded up,
All the black, brown, and yellowing sheep.
He knew he was a castaway,
The white lambs grazed all the grass away,
While the watch dogs barked at the rest of them,
But hey, they just wanted to keep their master safe.
Because what if the brown sheep was a wolf in sheep’s clothing,
Dangerous to let him on.
He spent his days in fear and isolation,
Self-worth gradually turned to self-loathing.
But Mr. Vohra’s life changed,
He found his pot of gold,
His daughter turned 18,
And I was 15 years old.
He’d brought us up on certain principles,
“Keep your head down beta, and you’ll be invincible.”
Couldn’t argue with that logic,
So, it’s what I implemented,
Until society showed me,
That they’re still gonna act demented.
We go back to the ninth grade,
A bunch of kids came to my base,
Cracked jokes, drank coke, and munched on my Lays,
But it felt kind of weird, because their sense of humour,
The things that they found funny; it was my race.
Too scared to say it’s wrong,
I couldn’t anger Jack, Cody, and James,
So, I thought my dad was the one to blame,
“Like just roll your R’s man and speak up straight.”
All my anger at the people,
Lashed out at him,
First the Canadian clock removed his cog,
Then his own son rejected him.
While I struggled to fathom,
How I wasn’t one of them,
I act, walk, and talk like them,
I don’t say “Thank you, come again.”
Raptors, Drake, and Tory Lanez,
The Weeknd’s miraculous rise to fame,
I rep my school, my ends I claim,
So how do I go back to where I came,
When I was born in this house and grew up in these lanes.
But I realized soon enough,
The problem’s not just them it’s us,
We call Bollywood tacky and hate on it,
Then somehow jam out to Russ.
Rep our block and rep our hood,
But repping culture bites the dust.
Shorten down our names and trust,
When we enter Starbucks,
We’re not even one of us,
Rahul becomes Ryan and Gurjot is now Gus.
But the barista still misspells it,
Maybe, it’s just their spelling skills that are going to rust.
Racism could be complicated,
But the basics would still remain,
Prejudice based off the colour of your skin,
Or what land your ancestors claim.
And unless we respect our own culture,
Why should others do it?
So, listen to your dad talk about the streets he grew up in,
And don’t be ashamed of his taste in music.
Because if we're too late,
Then we emancipate, that spreads the hate,
Racism will be kind of our own doing.
My name’s Nidhil, not needle, nidil, nideel, or nid,
Because that’s not my parents’ choosing.