A dictator fallsComments closed
while IDF drones
continue to target
young children.
Closer to home,
the cold arrives late,
and a young mother I knew
ten years ago,
dies of TB
and caste.
Poems about the dark times.
-Delhi, November 29, 2024Comments closed
UN conventions aim to restrain all genocide–
but committees and courts have failed to tame this genocide.
Who targets hospitals, children and schools in Palestine?
The IDF’s AI is specially trained for genocide.
Long-ago kings displayed rebel heads in town squares;
now soldiers post reels; they entertain with genocide.
Endless photos of violence and death, says Joe Sacco,
…no human can process the horror and pain of genocide.
And how do our leaders show their support for Israel?
Permission Denied for protests that name this genocide.
American liberals dread Donald Trump; they forget
Biden provided the bombs that sustain this genocide.
Dust and smoke paint our evening sky gray in New Delhi;
at sunset in Gaza, the sky bears the stain of genocide.
I heard you wake shaking again before dawn, my love–
was it your past–or the faraway flames of genocide?
Look in the mirror, what do you see, Hamraaz?
I’ve failed, we’ve failed, we live with the shame of genocide.
Yes, some of ourComments closed
feelings are ancient:
how we yearn for a lover,
like we yearn for a breeze
when our soggy shirts cling
in the damp August heat–
but this August,
some things feel new:
how the king and we know
his power has waned–
his thousand year rule
could end any day.
Meanwhile Chanakya frets
as he paces darkened halls–
he’s making late night calls;
he’s pounding on MHA walls.
Stacked on the back of his cycle,Comments closed
three shiny slabs of ice
are melting before my eyes–
how many friends will we lose
before rains bring relief
from this killing heat?
Meanwhile children in Rafah
are burning in tents
and schools–
we must uncover our eyes,
grieve and organise–we must
find a name for this fire.
-for Sharjeel Imam and Gulfisha Fatima You tear down a party flag as we cut through the back lane– I warn: CCTV; you scold: Control your worry– How many have they jailed? Let’s pray they are beaten soon! I concede you’re right, then I wink at the waxing moon.Comments closed
I’m schooling myself against hope: This is all too little, too late, but then after this long, lonely day, you text: there’s work to do, come– we have such a very short time, the sun’s left behind a cool breeze, we have such a very short time– I put down this poem and goComments closed
Spring has arrived in Delhi as the Supreme Court scolds SBI again and India Today live streams the PM– later, on the edge of the city police tend gardens of cement and spikes, and the rich gaze out their windows at razor wire glinting in moonlight– these days even the tops of small colony walls are sprouting rows of broken glass: like a slim beds of thorny wildflowers, or rows of broken glass.Comments closed
Two nights ago, you shook your head at the saffron flags that line the narrow lane behind our flat like wilted marigolds– They are a kind of anger, a kind of challenge, you said. Last night, we watched news of razor wire, roadblocks and wind-blown clouds of teargas– The farmers are back like spring flowers, you said– a kind of love, and also a challenge.Comments closed
-Recalling Umar Khalid’s latest bail plea while reading Langston Hughes on Republic Day It might shrivel– or fester and run, stink, explode or crust over– but the taste of the air today tells me, for now, it’s likely to smoulder.Comments closed
The ‘not-a-morning-person’ in his recent insta poem looks a whole lot like the man right next to me– and yes, I too am sleepy as I swipe to the next story: Israeli-US bombs, the bunker busting ones. Could those bombs shatter these Delhi Metro tunnels? (They may break the ‘Gaza Metro’, but they won’t break Palestine.)Comments closed
-Kotla Mubarakpur, November, 2023 I won’t comment on the moon, or the way the chemist shops were bathed in neon light– forget the smoke and dust, forget the swerving bikes– you took my hand that night. Today I woke at dawn, choking back a sob, you looked at me, worried. I told you, I was fine but did not tell you this: I’d dreamt I’d been buried– and yes, it’s true, I’m fine– I can stand and breathe, but also, I can see– buried friends will haunt all our dreams until Palestine is free.Comments closed
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.Comments closed
Whether he’s a terrorist or a family man– and whether he’s in Canada, UP or Pakistan– when a state kills without a trial, don’t name it encounter– name it, call it, what it is: either war or murder.Comments closed
-reading Sakshi Malik’s response to the FIR My grandfather was a wrestler– he said wrestlers understand power. Home ministers understand power, as does Brij Bhushan Singh. The police understands power, Sakshi Malik understands power– she says she has ‘hard calls’ to make– she’s wondering if we’ll stand with her.Comments closed
Every morning last week, two butterflies appeared near the bush by our back window– they flickered there, like static from your mother’s old radio, or faraway lightning– or j0y. This week, they’re suddenly gone– like the tailorbirds’ storm-broken nest, or your mother– or Umar Khalid. How long has it been since they took him? you ask as we enter the park.Comments closed
A ten-rupee tarnished sun rains heat on Hauz Rani: the Afghan baker sweats over his hot stove; so far from home, this man– I think of Umar Khalid. Your shirt is robin blue– we buy a piece of bread.Comments closed
You say that if an AI ever copied me, there’d be a smoky sun, or a lonely, moonlit dog– or a lizard or a snake, or even Amit Shah; it’d close with Umar Khalid or Sharjeel Imam. Yes, I should try harder, to be original– (but also, friends, I confess, I don’t object to viral :-)Comments closed
Sometimes in the epics, demons fall on heroes as they pass through forests– like the thugs who grabbed you, late night, from a bus stop– they took you to the station, gave you to the police, who tried to extract money from you and your family. It is an age-old racket– you had stolen nothing, they had no cause to beat you.Comments closed
During the pandemic, his family fled the city– now he’s back in school, but he’s far behind. His teachers know ‘inspection’ means ‘notebook scrutiny’, so they have him copy words he cannot read.Comments closed
when her family came to Delhi she was denied admission, and now she still can’t read, which’ll lessen competition: those who’ve had good schooling get higher education– those who haven’t, don’t– our modern day Partition.Comments closed
Some mornings I stand in the metro, or sit in an auto or bus, and consider my breath or the wind– or the beautiful faces of strangers. Some days, I pray for my parents, some days for Umar Khalid– imprisoned because he refused to put profit before love and freedom. Did you hear about Junaid and Nasir? Residents of Ghatmeeka, found dead in their car last week– burned alive, burned alive, burned alive.Comments closed
-Republic Day, 2023 I asked the AI for a poem, in the style of Kolatkar, about justice and Umar Khalid– I said please, I asked three times, and each time the AI replied: ‘An error has occurred’.Comments closed
-after the speech, a drunk fascist speaks frankly We taught them a lesson at Auschwitz, we taught them a lesson in Gaza– O, how we taught in Rwanda, Johannesburg and Durban. In Chile and neighbouring lands, we taught thousands to disappear– we taught them a lesson at Wounded Knee, in that church in Birmingham. We taught them a lesson in Myanmar, we taught several lessons in Delhi, we taught such a lesson in Gujarat– and still, they refuse to learn!Comments closed
-for Umar Khalid I was holding you tight and praying as we weaved through autos and cars– you said we were already late for our train to the south– and the sea. At some point, moon swallowed sun, or was it the other way round? We told lies to strangers and laughed– we cursed the Delhi police. Before dawn, I woke and was struck by the sound of the call to prayer, I remembered Umar Khalid– I prayed for the souls of blind judges.Comments closed
At the Kashmiri Gate metro station, a child in a bright blue dress breaks free from her parents, runs laughing– into the cool, rushing air. And then what? She turns and returns– and then what? More laughing and growing– and then what? She figures out something– and finds others who see she is right. And then what? Her ideas spread, but they jail her– like Natasha Narwhal. And then what? We all see she’s right and come into the streets like a flood. And then what? Life is still hard, but noone sleeps hungry or cold; we still struggle and we still love– we struggle because we love.Comments closed
-August 15, 2022 Some day soon, you’ll be watching a pair of tiny squirrels chase each other around a muddy park– or you’ll hear a young girl laugh as she rides an oversized cycle, hard through rain-soaked lanes– and for a time you may forget the fading light– but later you’ll read more friends have been charged for reading namaz, or that Hany Babu is still in jail– or you’ll see a brown kite fly away with a squirrel– and you’ll remember the darkness and tremble.Comments closed
-for Mohammed Zubair On the day Mohammed Zubair was released from Tihar Jail, sheets of rain bounced so high that for a few moments the ground all around shone and bloomed– a watery garden, suddenly sprung from a muddy, North Delhi lane. That evening, after the snarled streets and soaked shoes, I went out to buy a mango to celebrate the news. The man at the fruit cart was smiling: See how clean the wind tastes tonight– perhaps, the weather is changing.Comments closed
We’re huddled at the junction of five long, dusty paths: a swollen, hammering sun; withered wheat and grass. As weary families near, a bald man points and screams: Look at how they pray– it’s their fault, can’t you see? Next morning, when I ask, you say: It’s obvious– That was just Amit Shah trying to distract us. That night, as our fan rattles we sweat into the sheets; there’s thunder in the distance– we pray for rain and sleep.Comments closed
-for Professor Ratan Lal The feelings of powerful people are so easily hurt, lately– the police investigate satire as if wit were a felony. Reason, humour, history are now enemies of the state; solidarity’s called ‘terror’; they see love and say ‘hate’. But what do they find most painful? A Dalit who speaks his mind, friends! (If Ambedkar were alive today, Tihar Jail is where you’d find him.)Comments closed
After the abrogation, but before Shaheen Bagh– the Ayodhya verdict was in the news, we all sensed a deepening dark. I think we were in Kolkata– or maybe I have that wrong; we were celebrating your love– I wanted to write you a song. It might have included lovers holding hands under tube lights– maybe dust, or my father’s hair– I tried, but it didn’t feel right. My friend, I did not tell you, but that was the day I decided to learn how to sing of the dark times, to banish the censors inside.Comments closed
I was sitting near the back at the launch of G.N. Saibaba’s book of poems and letters from prison when he slipped into the seat on my left– I might not have noticed, but his white hair was glowing like a Christmas star, or a tube light hung on the wall behind the priest at at Midnight Mass. His tremors were mostly gone; I only saw him shake once– when A.S. Vasantha Kumari described the solitary confinement cells in the Nagpur Central Jail. He disappeared before the Q and A, but later as I stood outside with friends giving thanks for the cool May rain we heard him whisper as he passed: Breathe deep, comrades, breathe deep– tonight you can smell the forest.Comments closed
Who authorises homes and rites in this city? Each one who lives here has a right to this city! Equality under the law is just fiction– bulldozers show their masters’ might in this city. Landlords and agents act like sponges and thugs– private property? A blight on this city. The cops say, ‘with you, for you, always’– but we know: they’ll come for us, morning or night, in this city. Who reads alone in Tihar Jail? Umar Khalid! Behind the smoke, the moon is bright in this city. You ask me what it cost to give up my name– Nothing, and now I’m free to write in this city.Comments closed
Last night, I tried to turn off words and worries, to let the city rush over me, like a postmodern raag, written for engine, horn, shout and bark– after the elections in UP, I stopped reading the news, but the pigeons outside my window keep cooing: Madhya Pradesh, Jahangirpuri– and the raucous crows won’t stop their calls: Bulldozers, bulldozers– they’ll be here soon! Bulldozers, bulldozers, what will you do?Comments closed
Once while going by sleeper from Delhi to Bengaluru I dreamt I was trapped in a broken mine shaft, and waking, I cried out in terror. Now I dream of distant fires and wonder how far they will spread– there’s no way to know, but this much is plain: there’s no glory in war, just sorrow and pain, there’s no glory in war, my dear friends.Comments closed
–While reading Ilya Kaminsky, I Think of Umar Khalid Just outside Qutub Minar there’s a line of buses and cars filled with all kinds of folks, looking for all kinds of things– some have come to lose themselves; some, just want to get home; walking back to the metro, we pass flocks of uneasy dogs. Later, I’m reading Ilya Kaminsky, under a spinning fan– we may not live in a mythical town, but they’ve jailed the best among us.Comments closed
Armed men lining city streets, reporters sent to jail; intestines spilled in sand or snow, apartment buildings, rubble. Last night I dreamt of fire and bombs, I woke at dawn, trembling– I asked you for the news from home– you said Kashmir is angry.Comments closed
From a West Delhi roof, the moon is high and bright, the heat will be here soon, but the wind is cool tonight. Last night I dreamed of my father, and how my mother said, he cried when he lost his job, he sobbed when he lost his job. I’m thinking of your brother, and how he lost his job; he has no place of his own, he has no place of his own. Our leaders peddle hate and lies, and still we vote for them– we trade our hope for hate and lies, again and again and again.Comments closed
I’m dressed in my best at the wedding hall or is it a gym in Saket? I’m not ready to marry but don’t want to fight, so I slip out for a smoke. I meet a sweeper, we chat for a moment, he shows me a hollow wall– there’s cash behind it, he says, please take some– it’s black, but free, for now. Later, I’m sipping tea at a dhabba somewhere in Dhaula Kuan; a plateless car pulls up and then a tinted window rolls down: Putin and Shah laugh as they ask for samosas and directions; Ayodhya’s their goal, there’s not much time, the fifth phase is nearly here. (Just before dawn, the northern sky fills with neon lightning– thunder follows fast behind: the sound of young men dying.)Comments closed
-January, 2022 The dull, orange moon was hanging there, a dusty, swollen ache. The guard said, Close your phone– you said, friend, it’s just the moon. He shrugged his shoulders and looked down– what was left to say? This waning moon, this smokey sky– the orders we all take.Comments closed
The emperor is worried: first the plague, and now the council of ministers turning against his favourite viceroy– and what of the guilds– how can one trust those who build, weave or reap? It’s time to take strong action: re-invade that northern region, imprison a merchant from Bactria or Persia, announce a horse sacrifice– or better still, a pogrom; well placed fear yields division and hate– (We’ve done it before, sir, we know how it works: just say the word, and we’ll make it so.)Comments closed
The two year old child is kicking the mud outside the flooded playground: I don’t like the rain, I want to go back, take me home, take me home, take me home! On a flyover in Punjab, an old man kicks the floor of his armored car: It's been twenty minutes, I want to go back, take me home, take me home, take me home!Comments closed
-writing from Tihar Jail, Umar Khalid quotes Faiz Ahmad Faiz In the photos the young lovers post, they are smiling as they sip from the same bottle of cola, they are sharing a plate of chaat, they are sitting on a seesaw, under the bright, winter moon. Some nights he says, I’m cold, please warm my hands. Some nights she says, Let us pray now for Umar Khalid; I hear he is lonely inside.Comments closed
-January 1, 2022 Flocks of sheep drift down from the hills, like dry leaves blown free by a gust of winter wind– they block highways, refuse any compromise. In Lutyens’ Delhi, the Home Minister paces and shouts: Who’s in charge of the sheep? I told you to crush all resistance!Comments closed
-Christmas Day, 2021 i. One morning, during the plague that followed the fires that scarred the capital, you were feeding our pet rat, when word came from the town cryer: The farmers have circled the city. ii. A year and many deaths later, the king and his first minister finally concede. It will take another long year to pry open the jails, but when spring arrives that March, Shaheen Bagh is back in bloom. iii. ‘The change’ comes fast when it comes: the police and army trade their lathis and guns for the tools they need to build homes and hospitals. On every corner, libraries sprout, like winter wheat planted over obsolete borders.Comments closed
-Lodhi Garden, December, 2021 I was reading that story by Manto about two old friends, now soldiers, fighting each other in Kashmir, and I was thinking about how the distance between us has grown, but also how we sat on that bench today in the smoky, fading sun– we were talking about fascim and our fathers, but really about ourselves– and how you said, It’s tough because we all know there’s only one way any of our stories ever end. I forgot to ask you about the last time we saw Mangalesh Dabral, or what you think about Varavara Rao. You told me you believe in what you’ve written, and anyway, most of the time they don’t actually put poets in jail. But sometimes they do, and my friend if they do, we will stand by you, I promise we will.Comments closed
-for Sabbah Haji When I heard the Kashmiri educator had been jailed for calling a general a ‘war criminal’, a serious question came to my mind: How often does anyone in any large country rise to the level of general without running afoul at least once of some part of Article 8 of the UN’s ‘Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court’? And forgetting generals, how 0ften does anyone become even a DCP in any police force anywhere without condoning or ignoring ‘torture or inhuman treatment’ (to say nothing of encounters, which might be classified as acts of ‘willful killing’)? Just as some countries are kingdoms dressed up as republics, this is an appeal, disguised as a poem.Comments closed
Omicron’s arrived, be it mild or strong– Delhi smells of smoke; Amit Shah’s an animal. Still, let’s celebrate– Sudha Bharadwa: out of jail; the farmers have proven when we unite, we do not fail.Comments closed
These days on the metro, I keep seeing this pair: the old guy with his thick white beard, and his orange-robed friend— the one who’s always smiling. They’re building homes and universities; handing out jobs and free vaccines. I feel dizzy sometimes, thinking about the possibilities: a superhighway to Lanka; my very own flying chariot.Comments closed
Last week I crossed a narrow bridge strung over a wide canyon, and as I crossed, I felt a hole open in my belly. Last night under a swollen moon, I dreamt of Umar Khalid; I heard him laughing in his cell: The farmers have prevailed!