Masks of Politeness

by Sandeep Kumar Mishra

We wear our words like costumes stitched with care,

Fitting them to the shape of the room,

The tilt of a stranger's brow,

The weight of a handshake that lingers too long,

A universal ballet of silent signals.

But what is politeness but a gilded cage?

A bow in Japan, bent like bamboo in the wind,

Or the firm grip of a Western palm,

Clasping power disguised as greeting.In India, a nod can be yes, or no, or both—

A pendulum of meaning swinging with the breeze.

History kneels behind our gestures.

The court of Louis XIV birthed the smile that never touched the eyes,

A mask of civility to veil knives of ambition.

Colonizers brought table manners like sermons,

Forks and knives carving hierarchies into native flesh.

Do not slurp in Paris; it is a sin,

But in Tokyo, let the broth sing its praise.

Small talk floats like feathers in the U.S.,

While in Germany, the air stiffens with logic,

Every word a soldier marching to its point.

Languages fracture courtesy into shards—

In English, “How are you?” is a fleeting ghost,

But in Arabic, it becomes a waterfall of care,

Washing over family, friends, strangers alike.

False etiquettes hang in the air like smoke,

Rules bent by the weight of power and place.

We teach children to smile,

Even when their teeth grind with rage,

To apologize when they are not sorry,

To thank when the soul feels hollow.

And so, we drift, actors in a play

Where the script changes with the borders we cross.

Is this training, or taming?

A ritual of chains disguised as grace?

What if we tore off the masks,

Let our words stumble and spill,

Raw as the earth, unshaped by shame?