-for Hany Babu Last week in the market you saw two fights, I saw one myself, today— wounded pride or unpaid debts, rain-fed flowers of worry. Neighbors and friends still trickle away, as rations and patience run low; now they’ve arrested Professor Babu— is anyone really surprised? Pigeons mate on my windowsill, a lizard slips under the door; the dogs on the street were restless last night, as if they sensed a storm coming.Comments closed
The late July damp has settled on the city like a sweat soaked shirt, but you continue on the footpath outside the hospital where workers go to smoke and crows gather to feed on stale roti and seed. Further on, across the road, you give a wide berth to the stinking canine carcass sprawled in the shade of the shrubs outside the park’s back gate; further still, you pass the new camp of tarp and twine that’s sprung up in front of the fenced-in ruins west of the fouled drain’s rush. You’re tiring now, but you understand that if you keep to this path long enough, you may find a forest and a quiet place to pray. Late in the night, sweet water will run through your dreams; you will hear children splashing somewhere outside your window, and from the foot of your bed will come the yelps and gentle whimpers of a well fed, sleeping dog.Comments closed
—for Prashant Bhushan In the photo, a man in his early sixties sits astride a large, shiny motorcycle. He wears a short sleeved shirt and casual pants, and though it appears it may have been some time since he’s visited a barber, from this distance, in this focus, both his beard and long wavy hair are undeniably looking sharp; you can see why he might not want to ruin the moment by wearing a helmet or a mask— why should the letter or spirit of any law anywhere stop a hard working citizen from having a little harmless fun during these stressful times? It’s hard to believe a man like this would allow his feelings to be hurt by a couple of critical tweets— unless, of course, it’s true what they say about powerful, aging men who suddenly feel the need to be seen with flashy sports cars or motorbikes.Comments closed
Remember how we threw open the windows to watch the storm pass over the city— it arrived just past midnight, and even after it was so far gone that we could no longer hear its thunder, it still lit up the southern sky like fireworks at a farmhouse wedding, or a faulty street light, flickering over a dark, narrow lane in Mehrauli. You told me that if I climbed the wobbly, wooden ladder to the roof, on a clear day I could see Qutub Minar. I wasn’t sure I believed you, but I knew you were right to fear the storm and also to welcome it.Comments closed
False Narrative (i) -for Rahul Roy and Amit Shah A book or film that relied on identically worded ‘witness statements’ in order to show that Kristallnacht, the Delhi riots, or any other pogrom was caused by a conspiracy between the victims of the violence and a shadowy group of doctors, feminists, student activists, and documentary film makers would be classified as, ‘fiction/fantasy’, and hardly anyone would buy or watch it, because even by the standards of that genre, it would be unbelievable. False Narrative (ii) You may spook the courts, and even the press, but you won’t deceive the rest of us: fiction is fiction, no matter who sells it; a lie is a lie, no matter who tells it.Comments closed
I was thinking of your poem, ‘When Moonlight Moves Into the Dark’ as a comrade and I walked past the remnants of one of Delhi’s once wild forests. From our left came the sound of rain soaked branches and wind, from our right, the grumble and pop of late night traffic. Across the road, beyond the rush of bikes and cars, loomed the homes of the city’s rich— and I asked myself, Who owns this hauled-out wealth? At that moment, I heard you whisper: All the riches hidden behind closed doors are the forest. They want you dead, Varavara Rao, they think they can silence and cage you, but we know that is not how this will end. Not soon, but soon enough, we’ll rouse ourselves from this nightmare to find vines entwined everywhere, flames blossoming new worlds. *Note: Italicized lines by Varavara Rao from the poem cited, translated by D. Venkat RaoComments closed
-a letter to the editors Pandit or pauper, doctor or gangster, under the law, professions don’t matter: if they set out to kill you, without a court order, that’s not an ‘encounter’, that is a murder.Comments closed
It arrives when you least expect it: dust dims the sky, doors rattle and bang— branches crack, tall trees bow, unruly dogs cower under cars. Sometimes, there is thunder and rain. It brings relief to those who labour and sweat, like a sea of us marching together, when we flood the streets, just you wait—Comments closed
I want to sing you a sweet song tonight— the road you’ve chosen looks so long, tonight. When you were small, your dreams were full of dread; alone, avoiding sleep, you clung to night. Now fear and walls, and worse, are everywhere: new plagues, and old, see how they throng our nights? I know that you can see my shaking hands, but we’ll pretend that I am strong tonight. The ones you leave will stay to pray and fight; we’ll breathe the scent of rain and dung tonight. I am your confidante, why doubt me now? This tide will turn; the moon’s still young tonight.Comments closed
-after Rowdy Rathore I know social media shouldn’t be a popularity contest, but some days, I can’t help but think that if only I could trade in my simile generator and the app I use to break and scan lines for an Instagram Meme Making Machine (or at least a cracked copy of Photoshop), then you would all like and clap and share my posts, even more than you already do! I’d have to have a strong debut. Perhaps a long line of youngsters and parents, all standing two metres apart, in masks, waiting to get into Children’s Park. At the entrance, they’d be greeted by our smiling chief minister, who would gesture to a newly painted sign board: ‘Please show proof of residence’. But things move pretty quickly here, and that meme would already be dated; maybe it would be best to start at the top. It would take some doing, but I could try a split screen effect on Press Enclave Marg; on one side of the road, in Hauz Rani, we’d see ‘closed’ sign hanging on a police barricade near the corner of Gandhi Park that once housed a lovely little protest library; on the other side, the PM would be greeting throngs of shoppers to the remodeled, rebranded, DLF Avenue mall. I’d have to script Modi ji’s speech bubble; no doubt it would include something about the economy, ‘green shoots’ and the Mahabharata. . But in the end, friends, it would probably be best to go with something timeless and simple. How about Amit Shah, in front of the Delhi High Court? He would be smiling a smile that could be read in more than one way as he leaned in to whisper in a judge’s ear: Jo main nahi bolta, woh main definitely karta hoon!Comments closed
