The Delhi air turned cool, so we set out into the night; we argued about the future– you said, I was too optimistic. The G20-potted-plants were wilting or already dead; we cursed our leaders and wondered if curses were now illegal. We knew the answer was yes– and that bombs were falling in Gaza; at this moment, children were calling, Amma, when will this stop? When it rained, we ducked for cover, I thought of Umar Khalid– the wind smelled of woken soil– I prayed somehow he could smell it.
As Bombs Fall in Gaza, I think of Umar Khalid