What's in a Name?

This city has a filthy habit, 

of swallowing your names.

You came forlorn to her roads, 

wherein it's easy to get lost.

Like the sand on the beach-

her crowd plentiful, get washes away-

to pave way for a new bunch.

And in it, you cease to be you.

In the office, you are employee code.

In the train, you are a seat number, 

(or the lack of it sometimes).

In the murky theatre you remain-

the stupid seat number again.

In the slithering queues of malls, 

of banks, hospitals and pubs, 

you are a mere counter number.

In your online deeds, you're a code.

Buy something fancy, you are - 

a puzzling card number.

Swipe the card, feed your name, 

a paper tongue will poke at you, 

announcing the list of your sins.

In jails and mental asylums too, 

you are given numbers and terms.

That man is '007', the official spy.

The neighbour lady is 'blabberminy'.

'Most wanted' is this black cat and-

the 'priest' corresponds with braggart.

Our landlord is termed a 'psycho', 

and his wife is the real 'cuckoo.'

Those guys are 'Romeo' and Gatsby, 

and all those kids are 'Nevil the devil'.

Whilst they quote "what's in a name...,"

you can't hold back but curse the Bard.

No one remembers your name here.

Hence, you remain 'the new one'.

Some names lie piled up in backyards, 

and some hang from huge hoardings.

Names are floating in the drainages, 

and the very air reeks of burned names.

No wonder, when they refer to God-

as 'he who must not be named'.

Because this city has a filthy habit, 

of swallowing all the names...