Many years ago, under the influence of something weaker than witchcraft, but stronger than black tea, I kissed a man with a beard. Our fathers worshipped different gods, but there was no mob that night, no police, no FIR— just wind and the taste of sand and damp salt. I said, friend, I love you so much, and that is where we left it.Comments closed
-Christmas Eve, 2020 Tonight in Taloja Central Jail, Father Stan Swamy shakes but also rejoices; he knows that soon enough carpenters, fishers and blunt speaking women will join others who labour— in fields and factories, forests and homes— and that all those who hunger will be satisfied, and our weeping will turn to laughter.Comments closed
The dirt that clings to the potatoes you hold came from a farmer’s field. I dreamt a soft-spoken farmer taught me how to tell when the corn is ripe. It was still dark that morning we heard your uncle shuffle out to milk the cows; eighty years old, and still a farmer. On the coldest day of December, a boy grafts a rose onto a branch of China Orange. He wants to be a farmer. Somewhere, the winter wheat is in the ground; a farmer looks out at her field and smiles. A farmer can tell you how deep you must drill. Listen to the creak and splash of the farmer’s hand pump; tonight there will be a wedding. On Human Rights Day, posters of political prisoners spring up on Tikri border. Farmers are also humans. It is cold on the Singhu border; farmers light fires and plan. Libraries sprout like tulips; farmers are readers, spring has come early. rupi kaur is writing about farmers— she just called Modi a tyrant. Are there three lakh or ten? Perhaps it does not matter. Amit Shah fears our farmers. He worked with his hands in the city, and stood up for justice each day; as he passes, we sing for this farmer— we grow from seeds he has planted.Comments closed
-for Manglesh Dabral We were on the run, and things were changing fast; one moment, we were huddled on a windswept rocky ridge in Garhwal peering down at an approaching line of police and pack mules, and the next, we were avoiding the CCTV Cameras in Haridwar Junction; you warned me: Our enemy has many phone numbers, and I didn’t understand you, but also I did. We finally boarded a train destined for the Singhu Border, or Shaheen Bagh, or home; when you disappeared, I took out my phone and dialed you; a stranger’s voice answered, This number does not exist. Squatting and shaking in the space between coaches, I wrote my father a postcard. I told him how much I loved him, that I was trying to find my way back.Comments closed
-On the first anniversary of the CAA Yesterday evening, as we walked through Kotla Gaon, the clamour of a ragged wedding band mingled with the call to prayer, and for a moment, I swear, two bright sparks lit up the smoky sky, and I thought of how worried I’d been that day last December when you texted from a police bus on the outskirts of the city, and how I bit down on my tongue when you said that when they freed you, you would go right back again. But when we met at Jantar Mantar, I knew you had been right; love is always a struggle— we struggle because we love.Comments closed
I’d just boarded a southbound train, or was it a DTC Bus? Maybe it does not matter; I got a seat all to myself. A man sitting four seats away beckoned me to come over; he looked like he’d been out drinking— or working; you can’t always tell. I moved closer, but not too close, and asked him to tell me the news; he whispered, The farmers are coming— they’ll do what we failed to do.Comments closed
-for Kunal Kamra When children use kind words, that’s called a conversation; and when they argue loudly, that’s an altercation. While bullies everywhere employ intimidation, the clever must rely on wit and erudition. If a friend helps calm things down, we call that mediation; in the end so much depends on good communication. Still, when children can’t agree, we don’t talk of prosecution; what argument gets solved by incarceration? Some elders have forgotten complaints are not sedition, and tolerance and humour are good for the whole nation. I’ll spell it out in case you lack imagination: democracy depends on freedom of expressionComments closed