As June slips towards July, the heat turns heavy and wet, our coolers don’t work like they used to, we pray for the rains to return. We read of atrocities daily; no one is watching the watchmen— we post angry memes, but we know we’re weak when we’re inside and distant. Let’s walk through the dark streets, tonight— let’s remember what matters, what’s true; the rains will be back soon enough, my friends, soon enough, we’ll be back, too.Comments closed
-‘Delhi Police chargesheet names owner of hospital that treated riot victims’ -Indian Express They charged a friend of a friend, last week— who will be next? Someone is spinning false yarns, my friends, everyone knows. Meanwhile, middle class families fight for hospital beds; the state of the camps is dire, we know, it won’t get any press. My mother studies the news, and asks, Can this be Delhi? My father worries: my child, please call us every day. Last night, I slept to a siren’s song, but woke to a prayer— What is the cure for plagues like these? Solidarity, love.Comments closed
We only beat the war drums as long as we imagine the just-grown children of the people we imagine to be our siblings or friends killing the just-grown children of people we imagine to be our enemies— just for a moment, imagine every child is one of all of our children. (You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.)Comments closed
—‘Na Khaunga, na Khane Dunga’
Yes,
accepting or offering bribes or kickbacks,
or giving contracts or jobs to friends or family,
but also,
instructing or allowing the police to fabricate
charges against people who oppose you,
and refusing to investigate those you favour.
(Graft hidden in suitcases
or banks in far off lands,
or improper use of office
to enhance your party’s brand;
craving for wealth or power,
is usually its cause—
it spawns lies, hunger, fear,
and disregard for laws.)
Comments closedWhen I called this morning, my father told me that just before going to bed, he’d replaced the cell in an old alarm clock because he noticed it had stopped at 4pm sharp. He didn’t have the strength to set it right, but all night long he said he heard it spinning, and in the morning when he woke, it had just about caught up. I don’t know what it means, he said, but these are such strange times, I knew you would understand.Comments closed
Every so often, I catch a glimpse of the lizard that lives in my room; he does most of his work in the dark. I know it’s a foolish comparison, but his eyes evoke a home minister who appears on the evening news. Meanwhile, Safoora Zargar has still not been granted bail, and though the monsoon is far away, yesterday, a neighbor’s child swore he saw a long black snake in the park behind our flats.Comments closed
Behind us, a rusty, wire fence; under our feet: dry grass and dust. We were thirsty. Above us loomed an enormous, leafless tree; it looked as if it might touch the shivered, June moon. Samir gestured, or maybe it was Salima, and we all leaned back and peered into the darkness. We somehow understood that a piece of the tree, or the moon, had broken off and was hurtling towards us—but we had no idea where it might land, so we just trembled and waited for thunder and shake—or the end. Later, we tried to count how many of us were missing. A woman ran towards us, screaming. She was carrying a small child in her arms. Only his hand, she sobbed. It only took his hand.Comments closed
We slept on my grandmother’s porch, how we got there, who can say? Dogs approached, snarling and circling; I cried out, and you held me close. Later, came sounds from the road, a grinding of gravel and boots; you said it was Amit Shah’s man: he stunk of whiskey and malice. He said he’d be back in the morning, whether or not I was pregnant— as he left, the wind changed direction and brought back the scent of still water.Comments closed
Let’s float away on that rain cloud, we could ride it over state lines, we could ride it up north to the hills, we could take off our masks and breathe deep. Let’s find us a cool, empty valley, in a time, before all this began, we’ll learn to dig roots from the ground, we’ll learn to dry fruit and to dance. We’ll study the way hard stone fractures, we’ll figure out fire and we’ll sing, we’ll forget about tear gas and prisons, we’ll live without curfews and kings.Comments closed
Delhi Police blames victims and those who preach peace; they say rain is ‘flame’. Delhi judge accepts unsaid words are sparks that blow; court rules for the fire. Delhi people know rain is rain and fire is fire; we’re a rising sea.Comments closed
but the sparrows outside my window were debating the evening news— it had something to do with Amit Shah, and the kites that circle the drain. It had something to do with a murder of crows, solidarity, justice and strength.Comments closed
1. Perhaps he wanted a sudden transfer, or maybe he just didn’t get the memo, but on Monday, a Delhi High Court judge granted bail to a man accused of arson during the Delhi ‘riots’. The judge remarked, ‘prison is...not for detaining undertrials in order to send any “message” to society.’ 2. (This is not your kingdom, we won’t bow or touch your feet— if you treat us like your subjects we will see you on the streets.)Comments closed
I dreamed they came to our door and took you away at dawn. I tried, but I could not stop them; they were silent, and rough, when you struggled. Tonight, friends, let us all dream: doors open and cages broken, cool breezes and ceiling fans— we’ll argue and sing and share what we have, (we don’t need the police, we don’t need the police!)Comments closed