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Month: October 2020

As the NIA Raids NGOs in Delhi and Kashmir

The clothes left on the line outside
the flat across the street

are flapping in the dirty wind;
one shirt has just flown free,

and someone’s firing atom bombs
or guns; it’s hard to say—

the autumn air tastes acrid,
and the sky’s an inky gray.

Tonight, we’ll sleep to yapping dogs 
and creaky ceiling fans;

we’ll dream of sirens, pre-dawn raids, 
unjustly jailed friends.
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I Fall Asleep Reading a Poem by Akhil Katyal

-for Natasha Narwal

I don’t smoke, but somehow I’m smoking 
on a cramped South Delhi terrace;
I’m looking down at a wide, brown field 
of dry grass and scattered trash.
Beyond, are trees and more trees,
and gathered in upper branches,
a murder of angry crows
is scolding a circling kite.
Beyond that are just skyscrapers—
or maybe that’s just an illusion,
and there is Natasha Narwal,
sipping tea at a roadside dhaba.
I want to go down and ask her
about the food in Tihar Jail, 
I want to go down and tell her
how much we all have missed her. 
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Make Us Remember

-Delhi, October 13

Smoke presses down 
    on the 5 pm sky

leaving the sun bloated 
    and glowing,

like a molten bronze medal,
    or a strange neon fruit.

As raptors glide
    in high, hungry circles,

crows keep watch
    from ragged rooflines,

and closer to earth,
     children run laughing

through lanes lined with dust
     and shuttered shops. 
 
This weekend, we’ll read the police 
     have beaten another reporter,

and this reading 
    will make us remember

this is our city,
    we must take it back.
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A Lesson for Future Fascists

If you fear you might be condemned
for committing atrocities,

go file some FIRs 
and claim there’s a conspiracy;

sedition or 144,
incitement or simple foul play—

if anyone asks for bail,
just invoke the UAPA.

Clichéd, yes, but also true:
all tyrants and most all cutthroats

know when the going gets tough,
it’s time to go hide behind scapegoats.
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Breaking

-Jantar Mantar, October 2

Last week, we dreamed a feathered thing
dangled high, in tangled wires—

the scent of wood and petrol smoke,
the violent glow of pre-dawn fires;

some terrors are too large to name—
some wounds, so deep, they’ll never mend—

still, something’s breaking in the east;
friends, even this long night will end.
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