-Dyal Singh College Road, 9 P.M. Emerging from the metro, I met a swollen moon, I sipped a little smoke, tripped on the NIA. There was Hany Babu singing out a lecture— it was so soft and clear; it sounded like a poem. I sat down on the footpath, I shivered, yes, I cried: how can we celebrate with friends like this inside?Comments closed
The marching farmers fall, like wheat beneath a fast combine; young and old, they fall, stuck from behind, struck from behind! Watch the video: it is so clear, my friends, so clear; they’re marching peacefully: they do not fear, they do not fear. I see my father there; his tall, bent back, his slow, slow gait. The fallen ones will rise— like seeds, that is their fate, our fate!Comments closed
you remember how often you misunderstand important things— like that time the drunken drain cleaner looked straight at you and said, Of course, I read poetry, or the night you saw the shopkeeper you’d argued with days before, wearing no mask and laughing, and how at that moment, he looked just like your closest friend— or yesterday, when you heard the young fruit seller on your corner tell the woman next to you, yes, he was looking for books— ninth standard, and schools have been closed for so long— and you suddenly remembered the relationship between the price of labour and rice and pears— and the cost of capitalism.Comments closed
Patriotic schools, large flags— prayers and promises; our CM’s studied Gandhiji; says Ram Rajya is his goal. Let’s study Ravidas, Kabir, Phule and Ambedkar; instead of ‘soft Hidutva’, friends, let's learn to live together.Comments closed