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Hamraaz Posts

This Number Does Not Exist

Published by Hamraaz on 17-12-2020
-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. 
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Love Jihad

Published by Hamraaz on 11-12-2020
-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.
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City Edition, 7 Am

Published by Hamraaz on 09-12-2020
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.
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Simple Definitions

Published by Hamraaz on 02-12-2020
-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 expression
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Nightfall at Singhu Border

Published by Hamraaz on 30-11-2020
By the time you made it past 
all the checkpoints and texted

it was already dark.  A line 
of tractors, trucks and tents 

stretched down the highway 
for miles,

and a soft spoken man 
kept trying to explain,

We are not terrorists,  
we are here and will stay

so our families and friends
can live decent lives.

The photos you sent on Signal
disappeared before I slept,

but I saw the red flags, 
and circles of men sipping tea;

because it was cold,
there were many fires—

as I dreamt,
the fires grew brighter.
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Perhaps It’s Best

Published by Hamraaz on 25-11-2020
-Nine months after the Delhi Riots

In spite of the November cold,
   a cat went into heat

and wailed into the night, 
    like a sick child

or a faraway ambulance.
   I thought of you then,

and the stray you used to feed;
    I haven’t seen her in months.

Perhaps it’s best you’ve gone;
    you told me once how much

you miss the city’s sound and light,
    and yes, drying clothes still hang 

like strange bursts of bright fruit 
     on the rusty barricades 

that divide the loud road 
    in front of our flat—
  
but even the healthy among us
   are coughing these days,

and if they don’t like how you think,
    they’ll come lock you away.
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Worried Blues Pantoum

Published by Hamraaz on 13-11-2020
-Delhi 2020

Would you still love me, my friends,
if I lost my sense of smell?
Could we still touch from a distance?
What if I had a dry cough?

If I lost my sense of smell,
would I still crave idli-sambar?
What if I get a dry cough?
I don’t go outside; I’m afraid.

Would I still crave idli-sambar?
Would they put a big sign on my door?
I don’t go outside, I’m afraid
I might spread this virus to others.

Would they put a big sign on my door?
Would they jail me like Umar Khalid?
Could I spread this virus to others
like they spread hatred and lies?

If they jailed me like Umar Khalid,
could we still touch from a distance? 
In spite of their hatred and lies,
would you still love me, my friends?
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Let Us All Rest in the Company of Those Who Love Us

Published by Hamraaz on 06-11-2020
-for Varavara Rao 

It settled on me just before dawn
the day after I came to pay my respects—
heavy, like a thick wool blanket
on a not-quite cold night. 
It stayed until the scratch 
of a distant grass broom 
swept it from the room,
like a gentle cloud of dust.

I did not really know him, 
so I had no clear right to grieve,
but I knew what he meant to you, 
and when I saw him lying there
in the company of those who loved him,
I remembered an afternoon long ago
when I found my own grandfather 
lying still in his bed,  
and how my aunt and I sat with him—
and I was so sure I could see 
him breathing, but it was only me 
that was shaking.

This is not a poem about bail pleas
     or fascism.
Every word I write is against fascism.
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As the NIA Raids NGOs in Delhi and Kashmir

Published by Hamraaz on 30-10-2020
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

Published by Hamraaz on 24-10-2020
-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

Published by Hamraaz on 17-10-2020
-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

Published by Hamraaz on 06-10-2020
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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I Think of Umar Khalid

Published by Hamraaz on 22-09-2020
When I hear the gentle cooing 
of pigeons outside my window,
I think of Umar Khalid,

and when I see crows massing 
against an approaching bird of prey,
I think of Umar Khalid.

I think of Umar Khalid
when I see an autowala shaking 
his head as he reads the morning news

and when word comes that farmers 
and workers are marching again
after so many months of silence.

Just before dawn in Lutyens’ Delhi,
Amit Shah thinks of Umar Khalid;
he fears this time he’s gone too far.
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Lifted and Carried

Published by Hamraaz on 19-09-2020
-for Varavara Rao

It’s easy to remember 
    the slow shuffle back,

the way the ceiling fan’s 
    slow turn makes the hair 

on your arms stand up, 
    how the morning light 

falls with such gentleness 
    on every green, growing thing—

how it occurs to you that relief  
     is a seasonal kind of pleasure.

We’re so quick to forget 
    what came before—

the aches, the chills, 
    the stabbing, grinding,

burning, heaving, raking, 
    cramping, throbbing,

gnawing, shooting—
    perhaps there’s just no 

advantage in recalling 
    such things, but

even after the pain’s been replaced 
     by your story of the pain,

if you are honest, you know 
     there were moments 

when you thought or wished 
    you might shatter or stop,

but also moments when you 
     were lifted and carried 

by a glass of cool water,
    from a sibling or mother,

a touch on your neck,
    by a comrade or lover,

a quiet, kind word 
    from a neighbor or father—

and if you allow yourself 
    to examine these memories 

 you will see why 
    it’s such heinous crime

to jail innocent people 
    for political gain.
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आवारा हैं

Published by Hamraaz on 30-08-2020
Maybe you’d had too much to drink,
    or maybe you were just dreaming—

or maybe you were an I or we,
    or maybe it does not matter—

but a pack of boys on bikes flew up
    and over the wide, wet crossing,

and six hungry dogs in the market stared
    as we shared a plate of samosas.

Is it right to eat outside, you asked,
    while so many go without?

Nearby, a gang of students sat 
    and laughed and flirted and smoked.

It may have been a fever dream, 
    or the snack we’d eaten too quickly—

or just the feel of road under feet,
    or maybe it does not matter—

an ancient road roller rumbled by
    as we passed the shuttered temple:

you matched its speed; I slowed and searched
    for demons in puffs of black vapour.

At the T-point by the rubbish heap, 
    dogs studied the moon and trembled

as it emerged from a bank of clouds,
   then hung there, like a cradle.
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Under a Midsummer Night’s Moon

Published by Hamraaz on 23-08-2020
You asked me if it might be fun to try
to hold gloved hands and kiss through our new masks,
but when we did, your aunt came barging in,
announcing she had urgent things to ask
about the state of the judiciary,
the meaning of sedition and contempt,
and why we jail professors and poets,
and why I looked so worried and unkempt.
I could not find any fitting reply—
as in court, the truth was no defense—
I changed the subject back to the virus,
and asked about medicinal incense.
(I am no lawyer, but I often dream
of fascism, frustration and moonbeams.)
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Pinjra Tod

Published by Hamraaz on 13-08-2020
-Delhi, August 13

Rain drenched the city 
like a bite of ripe pear 

after a hot, oily meal,
and there was no dry path 

through the narrow lane 
behind the masjid,

so two giggling girls 
picked their way 

through the muddy 
maidan—

shoulder-to-shoulder
under one worn umbrella—

while Devangana Kalita
and Natasha Narwal

spent one more long day 
in Tihar jail.
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Only Together Can We Bring It

Published by Hamraaz on 05-08-2020
-one year after the abrogation

A year ago, a plague was delivered 
upon a far-off northern region,

and many of us in the capital 
understood this, but did nothing—

because we were afraid 
and felt powerless,

or because we told ourselves 
that twitter or the courts would cure it.

Last night, I watched a storm
flash in the southwest sky—

the ebb and glow of distant light,
just the hint of a cool, clean breeze—

and I wished and prayed
it would bring us relief

from all of this season’s 
sickness and heat. 

But friends, none of my lonely 
wishes and prayers

were enough to summon  
the storm’s healing air.
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Last Week, in Hauz Rani Forest

Published by Hamraaz on 03-08-2020
-for Hany Babu and Varavara Rao 

We met near the pond,
I brought something to eat:

tomatoes, bread,
your favourite sweets—

old couples strolling,
children laughing;

it would have been perfect, 
except for these things:

the ducks were caged, 
the pond was dry,

there was no breeze, 
and I wondered why

we jail our best teachers 
and poets.
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Change of Seasons

Published by Hamraaz on 29-07-2020
-for Hany Babu

Last week in the market you saw two fights,
     I saw one myself, today—

wounded pride or unpaid debts,
   rain-fed flowers of worry.

Neighbors and friends still trickle away,
     as rations and patience run low;

now they’ve arrested Professor Babu—
     is anyone really surprised?

Pigeons mate on my windowsill,
    a lizard slips under the door;

the dogs on the street were restless last night,
    as if they sensed a storm coming.
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First, We Will Dream It

Published by Hamraaz on 27-07-2020
The late July damp has settled on the city 
like a sweat soaked shirt, but you continue 
on the footpath outside the hospital

where workers go to smoke and crows 
gather to feed on stale roti and seed. 
Further on, across the road, 

you give a wide berth to the stinking canine 
carcass sprawled in the shade of the shrubs 
outside the park’s back gate; further still, 

you pass the new camp of tarp and twine 
that’s sprung up in front of the fenced-in ruins
west of the fouled drain’s rush.  

You’re tiring now, but you understand 
that if you keep to this path long enough, 
you may find a forest and a quiet place to pray. 

Late in the night, sweet water will run 
through your dreams; you will hear children 
splashing somewhere outside your window,

and from the foot of your bed will come 
the yelps and gentle whimpers 
of a well fed, sleeping dog.
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Man Sits Proudly on a Big Bike

Published by Hamraaz on 23-07-2020
—for Prashant Bhushan

In the photo, a man in his early sixties 
sits astride a large, shiny motorcycle. 
He wears a short sleeved shirt
and casual pants, and though 
it appears it may have  been 
some time since he’s visited a barber,
from this distance, in this focus,
both his beard and long wavy hair 
are undeniably looking sharp;
you can see why he might not want
to ruin the moment by wearing 
a helmet or a mask—
why should the letter or spirit
of any law anywhere stop a hard 
working citizen from having 
a little harmless fun during 
these stressful times?

It’s hard to believe a man like this
would allow his feelings to be hurt
by a couple of critical tweets—
unless, of course, it’s true 
what they say about powerful, 
aging men who suddenly feel 
the need to be seen with flashy
sports cars or motorbikes.
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Welcoming the Storm

Published by Hamraaz on 22-07-2020
Remember how we threw open the windows 
to watch the storm pass over the city—

it arrived  just past midnight, 
and even after it was so far gone

that we could no longer 
hear its thunder,

it still lit up the southern sky
like fireworks at a farmhouse wedding,

or a faulty street light, flickering 
over a dark, narrow lane in Mehrauli.

You told me that if I climbed the wobbly, 
wooden ladder to the roof,

on a clear day I could see Qutub Minar.
I wasn’t sure I believed you,

but I knew you were right to fear the storm
and also to welcome it. 
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False Narratives

Published by Hamraaz on 19-07-2020
False Narrative (i)
-for Rahul Roy and Amit Shah

A book or film that relied on identically 
worded ‘witness statements’ 

in order to show that Kristallnacht, 
the Delhi riots, or any other pogrom

was caused by a conspiracy between
the victims of the violence and a shadowy 

group of doctors, feminists, student 
activists, and documentary film makers 

would be classified as, ‘fiction/fantasy’,
and hardly anyone would buy or watch it, 

because even by the standards of that genre,
it would be unbelievable.


False Narrative (ii)

You may spook the courts, 
    and even the press, 

but you won’t deceive 
    the rest of us:

fiction is fiction, 
    no matter who sells it;

a lie is a lie, 
    no matter who tells it.
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Varavara Rao Came to Delhi Last Night

Published by Hamraaz on 13-07-2020
I was thinking of your poem, 
‘When Moonlight Moves Into the Dark’ 
as a comrade and I walked past the remnants 
of one of Delhi’s once wild forests. 
From our left came the sound 
of rain soaked branches and wind,
from our right, the grumble and pop 
of late night traffic. Across the road, 
beyond the rush of bikes and cars,
loomed the homes of the city’s rich—
and I asked myself,
Who owns this hauled-out wealth?
At that moment, I heard you whisper:
All the riches hidden behind closed doors
are the forest.

They want you dead, Varavara Rao,
they think they can silence and cage you,
but we know that is not how this will end.
Not soon, but soon enough, we’ll rouse 
ourselves from this nightmare to find
vines entwined everywhere,
flames blossoming new worlds.


*Note: Italicized lines by Varavara Rao from 
the poem cited, translated by D. Venkat Rao
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So Long

Published by Hamraaz on 06-07-2020
I want to sing you a sweet song tonight—
the road you’ve chosen looks so long, tonight.

When you were small, your dreams were full of dread;
alone, avoiding sleep, you clung to night.

Now fear and walls, and worse, are everywhere:
new plagues, and old, see how they throng our nights?

I know that you can see my shaking hands,
but we’ll pretend that I am strong tonight.

The ones you leave will stay to pray and fight;
we’ll breathe the scent of rain and dung tonight.

I am your confidante, why doubt me now?
This tide will turn; the moon’s still young tonight.
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Popularity Contest

Published by Hamraaz on 03-07-2020
-after Rowdy Rathore 

I know social media shouldn’t be a popularity 
contest, but some days, I can’t help but think 
that if only I could trade in my simile generator
and the app I use to break and scan lines 
for an Instagram Meme Making Machine
(or at least a cracked copy of Photoshop),
then you would all like and clap and share 
my posts, even more than you already do!

I’d have to have a strong debut. Perhaps 
a long line of youngsters and parents,
all standing two metres apart, in masks,
waiting to get into Children’s Park.
At the entrance, they’d be greeted by 
our smiling chief minister, who would 
gesture to a newly painted sign board:
‘Please show proof of residence’.

But things move pretty quickly here,
and that meme would already be dated;
maybe it would be best to start at the top.
It would take some doing, but I could try 
a split screen effect on Press Enclave Marg;
on one side of the road, in Hauz Rani, 
we’d see ‘closed’ sign hanging on a police 
barricade near the corner of  Gandhi Park 
that once housed a lovely little protest library;
 on the other side, the PM would be greeting 
throngs of shoppers to the remodeled, rebranded, 
DLF Avenue mall. I’d have to script Modi ji’s speech
bubble; no doubt it would include something  
about the economy, ‘green shoots’ 
and the Mahabharata.
. 
But in the end, friends, it would probably
be best to go with something timeless
and simple. How about Amit Shah, 
in front of the Delhi High Court?
He would be smiling a smile that could 
be read in more than one way as he 
leaned in to whisper in a judge’s ear:

Jo main nahi bolta,  
woh main definitely karta hoon!
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What Matters

Published by Hamraaz on 29-06-2020
 As June slips towards July,
     the heat turns heavy and wet,

our coolers don’t work like they used to,
     we pray for the rains to return.

We read of atrocities daily;
     no one is watching the watchmen—

we post angry memes, but we know
     we’re weak when we’re inside and distant.

Let’s walk through the dark streets, tonight— 
     let’s remember what matters, what’s true;

the rains will be back soon enough, my friends,
     soon enough, we’ll be back, too. 
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Now, They Are Coming for the Doctors

Published by Hamraaz on 28-06-2020
-‘Delhi Police chargesheet names owner of hospital 
that treated riot victims’ -Indian Express

They charged a friend of a friend, last week—
    who will be next?

Someone is spinning false yarns, my friends,
    everyone knows.

Meanwhile, middle class families fight 
    for hospital beds;

the state of the camps is dire, we know,
    it won’t get any press.

My mother studies the news, and asks,
    Can this be Delhi?

My father worries: my child, please call 
    us every day.  

Last night, I slept to a siren’s song, 
    but woke to a prayer—

What is the cure for plagues like these?
    Solidarity, love.
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Imagine a Fitting Response

Published by Hamraaz on 26-06-2020
We only beat the war drums 
as long as we imagine

the just-grown children 
of the people we imagine 
to be our siblings or friends

killing the just-grown children 
of people we imagine 
to be our enemies—

just for a moment, 
imagine every child 
is one of all of our children.

(You may say I'm a dreamer,
but I'm not the only one.)
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There Are Many Ways To Eat

Published by Hamraaz on 24-06-2020
—‘Na Khaunga, na Khane Dunga’

Yes, 
accepting or offering bribes or kickbacks, 
or giving contracts or jobs to friends or family,

but also,
instructing or allowing the police to fabricate 
charges against people who oppose you, 
and refusing to investigate those you favour.

(Graft hidden in suitcases
     or banks in far off lands,

or improper use of office
     to enhance your party’s brand;

craving for wealth or power, 
     is usually its cause—

it spawns lies, hunger, fear,
     and disregard for laws.)
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Catching Up in Strange Times

Published by Hamraaz on 21-06-2020
When I called this morning, 
my father told me that just before 
going to bed, he’d replaced 

the cell in an old alarm clock 
because he noticed it had stopped 
at 4pm sharp. He didn’t have 

the strength to set it right, 
but all night long he said
he heard it spinning,

and in the morning
when he woke, it had just 
about caught up. I don’t 

know what it means, he said, 
but these are such strange times,
I knew you would understand.
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He Does Most of His Work in the Dark

Published by Hamraaz on 17-06-2020
Every so often, I catch a glimpse 
of the lizard that lives in my room;

he does most of his work in the dark.
I know it’s a foolish comparison,

but his eyes evoke a home minister
who appears on the evening news.

Meanwhile, Safoora Zargar 
has still not been granted bail,

and though the monsoon is far away,
yesterday, a neighbor’s child 

swore he saw a long black snake 
in the park behind our flats.
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Someday We’ll Remember How We Came Through This Together

Published by Hamraaz on 14-06-2020
Behind us, a rusty, wire fence; under our feet:
dry grass and dust. We were thirsty. Above us
loomed an enormous, leafless tree; it looked as if
it might touch the shivered, June moon. Samir
gestured, or maybe it was Salima, and we all
leaned back and peered into the darkness. We
somehow understood that a piece of the tree, or
the moon, had broken off and was hurtling
towards us—but we had no idea where it might
land, so we just trembled and waited for thunder
and shake—or the end. Later, we tried to count
how many of us were missing. A woman ran
towards us, screaming. She was carrying a small
child in her arms. Only his hand, she sobbed.  
It only took his hand.
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Late Last Night

Published by Hamraaz on 10-06-2020
We slept on my grandmother’s porch,
how we got there, who can say?

Dogs approached, snarling and circling;
I cried out, and you held me close.

Later, came sounds from the road,
a grinding of gravel and boots;

you said it was Amit Shah’s man:
he stunk of whiskey and malice.

He said he’d be back in the morning,
whether or not I was pregnant—

as he left, the wind changed direction
and brought back the scent of still water.
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I Want To Go Back, Let’s Go Back

Published by Hamraaz on 07-06-2020
Let’s float away on that rain cloud,
we could ride it over state lines,

we could ride it up north to the hills,
we could take off our masks and breathe deep.

Let’s find us a cool, empty valley,
in a time, before all this began,

we’ll learn to dig roots from the ground,
we’ll learn to dry fruit and to dance.

We’ll study the way hard stone fractures,
we’ll figure out fire and we’ll sing,

we’ll forget about tear gas and prisons,
we’ll live without curfews and kings.
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Two Memos

Published by Hamraaz on 02-06-2020
1.
Perhaps he wanted a sudden transfer,
or maybe he just didn’t get the memo,
but on Monday, a Delhi High Court judge
granted bail to a man accused of arson 
during the Delhi ‘riots’. The judge 
remarked, ‘prison is...not for detaining 
undertrials in order to send any 
“message” to society.’

2.
(This is not your kingdom,
we won’t bow or touch your feet—
if you treat us like your subjects
we will see you on the streets.)
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Ninety-nine Days After the Delhi Pogrom, While America Burned,

Published by Hamraaz on 01-06-2020
I dreamed they came to our door
and took you away at dawn.

I tried, but I could not stop them;
they were silent, and rough,
 
when you struggled. 
Tonight, friends, let us all dream:

doors open and cages broken,
cool breezes and ceiling fans—

we’ll argue and sing 
and share what we have,

(we don’t need the police,
we don’t need the police!)
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A Modest Manifesto

Published by Hamraaz on 25-05-2020
-for Devangana, Natasha and all political prisoners

Each of us needs 
a safe place to dwell,

love and care 
when we’re low or ill;

we all need enough 
to eat and drink—

stories and songs, 
paper and ink;

respect at home,
at work, fair wages,

not condescension, 
curfews or cages!

We should not have to fear
they will take us away

because they don’t like
how we think or pray—

these are basic,
modest demands;

we must give to ourselves
these rights, my friends.
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PM, Care

Published by Hamraaz on 17-05-2020
I’m searching for scales to weigh what’s fair:
families are hungry, miles from home;
don’t worry, they say, our PM, he cares.

Millions are living on water and prayers,
while others are forced to work to the bone;
I’m still looking for scales to weigh what’s fair.

It plays on the street, in the radio’s blare,
listen, it’s there, in the nightly news drone:
trust him, and give; our PM, he cares.

We need rations and love and protective gear,
we must care for all who are sick and alone;
we have to find scales that weigh what is fair.

We could  file an RTI, if we dared:
‘What matters more, food or free loans?’
Let’s audit the PM: how much does he care?

We don’t need police spreading hatred and fear,
we don’t need new vistas, statues, or thrones;
we’ll fashion new scales, we’ll weigh what is fair—
we’ll learn from each other the meaning of care.
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Green

Published by Hamraaz on 12-05-2020
I dreamed I was writing in green,
my father was dressed in green robes—

the dogs in the park were frisking,
you were spinning beneath a tall tree.

I saw the capital emptied
of those who hungered for home—

two pigeons took flight from a lamp post 
and swept down the lane in the back.

I heard they’d opened the jails,
and freed all the wrongly accused,

I was writing this poem in green,
my father came close and he touched me.
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Lockdown Lullaby

Published by Hamraaz on 11-05-2020
Let the ceiling fan spin you tonight, 
    my friends, 

    you don’t need to be anywhere.

Go lie on a cool, hard floor,
    my friends,

    feel gravity hold you down.

Together, we’ve come through dark days, 
     my friends,

     there are darker days coming soon.

The moon is flowering tonight, 
    my friends,

    we’re here for such a short while.


Sumedha Bhattacharyya (@kathagrapher) translated into dance. You can see it here
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Delhi Lockdown, 8:45 pm

Published by Hamraaz on 03-05-2020
Yes, hunger is stalking the land,
you’ve seen it up close, and I hear you.

And they are using the UAPA
to crush those who dare to speak out.

Last night, you lay awake turning;
I dreamt of thick smoke and my father—

but the moon is half full and waxing, 
and the wind is gentle and clear;

let’s grab our masks and a bag— 
we’ll walk towards a Mother Dairy;

I’ll buy you a cold tadka chach,
you can buy me a cool sweet lassi.
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Dear Comrade Marx,

Published by Hamraaz on 01-05-2020
I’ve been reading the Communist Manifesto, and also Wikipedia, and I think we have some things in common. We both want a world ‘in which the free development of each is the condition for the free development of all’ and where the first rule is, ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs’.

Also, we’ve both used interesting names to avoid trouble from the authorities. (I noticed  you signed your letters from London, ‘A. Williams’.  May I please call you, Al?)

I confess I did not finish Capital, and I never even attempted the Grundrisse, but I can see you got a lot right about power and social relations. It’s true, your timing was off; the horizon wasn’t as close as any of us imagined. Who could have predicted refrigerators or automobiles and all the change they brought? 

I know you and a lot of comrades really hoped we could just flip things, and many good people died trying. And I don’t think it’s fair to pin it all on Stalin—no doubt he was a sociopath, like most world leaders, but I think you’d agree that the system wasn’t as easy to seize as we thought, for practical and probably theoretical reasons that I don’t fully understand.

Listen, Comrade Al, the dhabas are closed, but I think you should meet me at the Mother Dairy by the main road; I’ll bring you a mask, and I’ll buy you a lassi or a tadka chach. I know a park nearby where the police rarely come. We’ll carry a shopping bag and find a bench under a tall tree that will shield us from the May Day sun. 

You could explain what you meant by formal subsumption and clear up some questions I still have about the labour theory of value.

We’ll talk about the way pronouns are changing, and I’ll  bring you a small stack of my favourite books—friend, you have a lot of catching up to do—Ambedkar, and maybe Paulo Freire and Why Loiter. But also poetry. I’ll see if I can find you something by Agha Shahid Ali, Kutty Revathi, Kolatkar, Safdar Hashmi and Sukirtharani. I’m guessing you’re a fast reader, and please don’t tell me you don’t have time for good poetry wherever it is you stay these days.

If you like Delhi, you can come back next year, once the lockdown  is lifted.  I’ll show you an AC train and we’ll visit Shaheen Bagh. And that bookstore up north in Shadipur, where they still lovingly hang a photo of you on their wall.
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A Map of Our Love and a Promise

Published by Hamraaz on 29-04-2020
Somewhere today, 
a baby conceived on the eve 
of the abrogation will be born;

just think of all the hatred, hunger, 
violence and courage we’ve seen 
in the past 38 long weeks—

what stories will we tell this child 
when she’s old enough to hear them?
Yes, her mother carried her 

through dark times, and she 
was born into darker times, still.
But the late April breeze 

was cool that night,
and though the May sun
would be unforgiving,

we promised to fan her,
to love and to stand with
her and her siblings,

and cousins and classmates—
and all of her friends
and all of her neighbors—

and all of the people 
in the land she called home,  
and all of the people beyond it.
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Let’s Not Forget What’s Coming Next

Published by Hamraaz on 27-04-2020
‘In the FIR, the police claimed that the communal violence 
was a “premeditated conspiracy” which was allegedly hatched 
by Mr. Khalid and two others.’ -The Hindu

This world is built on sand and silt,
dark clouds are hanging low;

how many go to sleep hungry
for food or distant homes?

Meanwhile police investigate
fantasies and dreams;

they target those who think and speak,
ignore the real crimes.

To slow this virus, we will keep
our distance, friends, for now,

but when this sickness passes,  we’ll 
make tyrants scrape and bow. 
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Refuge of the World

Published by Hamraaz on 21-04-2020
-Jahanpanah, 1341

Smoke drifts in from camps
where starving men stew
animal hides and rotten meat.
 
The sultan is angry; 
the traveler is put under guard—
he fasts for nine days, reciting,
 
Allah is sufficient for us,
and most excellent is the Protector.
Freed, he finds an excuse to move on.  

On the day I took you there,
a light rain calmed the flies,
and mist masked the smoke that

rose from nearby camps and cars.
There were no children playing
on the muddy field below us,

but near the top of a crumbling 
tower, young men smoked, 
drunk beer and laughed.

A thousand pillars have fallen and rotted, 
leaving only stones, sod and soil. 
We lost so much in one short year: 

your sister, my niece, some of our 
faith in the future of love and freedom.
The city is locked, we cannot go back—

I searched, but found only this:
the Refuge of the World has fallen—
we must build a new refuge, my friends.

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How Many, How Long?

Published by Hamraaz on 14-04-2020
How many summers have come
since Harappa and Mohenjo-daro 
faded or fell? 

We’ve all heard the story:
a rivers runs dry or changes course, 
a new pestilence rides into town,

crops wither in baking fields.
Each time it happens must 
seem like the first time—

hungry families camp outside 
city gates or scatter like tumbleweed
towards faraway forests or hills

while rulers pace and wonder 
how long their guards will hold.

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Suddenly, Rage

Published by Hamraaz on 06-04-2020

In life, there are times like this 
when suddenly we can no longer do
many of the things we once could—

maybe you’re missing a strong drink 
and friends, and you’re sick of Netflix
and your bad internet connection,

or maybe your father keeps falling 
because he refuses to stop standing 
on chairs to reach for high things,

and now there are no trains to take 
you home, so you wait each day
for news of his next sudden fall.

Or maybe you live on a construction site 
far from your village, and you suddenly 
lose your job and can’t reach your family,

and one day, after waiting for hours 
for rations, someone announces,
Sorry, there is no more to give today,

and you think, and maybe you shout,
This has nothing to do with giving,
they’ve taken our jobs and our families!

And maybe on FB, someone will complain,
It is so hard, but what good comes 
from anger? We are doing our best.

And maybe we will half-remember 
an old song or poem or prayer 
and suddenly it will become clear:

For everything there is season: a time 
for vexation and sorrow and sharing—
and also a time for rage!

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Small Confession

Published by Hamraaz on 03-04-2020

I just finished the story by Perumal Murugan
where a chair comes between a loving couple;
it’s not controversial—

there’s no intercaste marriage or infidelity, 
nothing to offend anyone’s sensibilities 
or to provoke the police, a court, 

or a right wing mob to ban or burn any books, 
or to threaten a mild-mannered author 
with damnation or bodily harm—

there’s just a man, a woman, 
and a chair that slowly drives them apart. 
Of course, the chair is a metaphor 

for patriarchy and other problems 
that inevitably come with modernity—
like the wailing toilet in another 

Murugan story, or this phone I use
to talk with the people I love,
and also to avoid them.

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This Virus Is a Beginning, Not the End

Published by Hamraaz on 01-04-2020

Friends, more than one plague
    is loose in the land—

yes, there’s the new virus,
    but please understand

there are older plagues, too—
    and all plagues are connected—

ignorance, caste,
    exploitation and hatred.

When we all grasp together
    the great power we hold,

we’ll make tyrants tremble,
    we’ll heal this world.

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Some of Us, Friends

Published by Hamraaz on 29-03-2020

This city wakes daily 
    to birdsong and worry—
we all miss our family 
    or friends, or the sky;

we wonder how long 
    our paychecks will last,
we fret about those who
    are sick, old or frail. 

Some ask how long 
    the atta will last,
will police harass us 
    if we go look for dal?

And some of us, friends,
    have no place to return to,
and some of us, friends,
    don’t know how to get home—

and some of us, friends, 
    are already hungry,
some of us, friends,
  are afraid and alone.

Distant or near, 
    all of us matter,
we must not forget
   we depend on each other.
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Waiting at the Station

Published by Hamraaz on 27-03-2020

The night before the lockdown,
my sister called to say

our cousin had told her:
Go see your father soon,

he is not keeping well at all.
We both knew I could not go,

and that night I dreamed
I was standing alone

in an silent railway station,
waiting for something or someone.

And all week, I’ve been trying
to remember what I was waiting for:

was it my sister, my father,
or a train to take me home?

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Letter From Our Future

Published by Hamraaz on 22-03-2020


Remember, when we posted
selfies and self-care memes?
It was difficult to be alone.

When we had to go out, we tipped
autowalas and didn’t bargain over
the price of potatoes or fruit.

We were tempted to share
stories about our efforts,
but even then, we were

starting to feel uncomfortable
about performance. Some
of us worked from home,

some were put on unpaid leave.
We thought it was temporary,
and though we knew the Janta

Curfew was a symbolic drill,
held a month too late,
most of us secretly hoped

the government had a plan
or the weather would somehow
change things. Then came

the layoffs, and the pleas for help
from friends: first artists
and writers whose income

and savings had dried up—
that was easy; after all,
they were like family.

And when our neighbors
came asking for ghee and onion,
we gave and were glad to.

When we were called
to share water, atta and dal,
and when we began to see

terrible things on our screens,
and in the streets when we
had to venture out,

it became more difficult
than we’d imagined it
would be. We did not cover

ourselves in glory; yes,
we loved, but we also failed.
We are here on the other side now,

grieving and also rejoicing. We
are all here together; yes we failed,
but also we loved.

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What’s Playing Now

Published by Hamraaz on 18-03-2020

It’s like that moment in the film
when the main characters

are looking out the window—
they can hear the thunder

and the rain, but the wind is still
just rustling the branches

and bushes in their small,
close-knit community,

and it would look so peaceful,
except for the soundtrack,

and the fact that you know
that they know

there is a mighty storm on the way,
and the only question

is whether it will be their home,
or one of their neighbor’s,

that will be left standing
after it passes.

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What to Say: A Letter To Our Leaders

Published by Hamraaz on 16-03-2020

Our schools are closed, our markets are slow—
none of us knows what is coming,

but a few things, at least, are clear:
we can’t beat a virus with lathis;

tear gas and bullets won’t work.
Our doctors and nurses will work

till they drop; we’ll all do
what we can to support them.

But everywhere and always,
public health depends on trust:

Say you’ll withdraw the CAA,
and roll back the abrogation.

Say all of us are equal;
say each of us counts the same—

say we’re all brothers and sisters,
say we will stop this, together.

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Tipping

Published by Hamraaz on 14-03-2020

Scientists say that every so often
something tips,

and savannah turns to desert,
or forest to tundra,

in the space of a decade or less.
Our own short history’s littered

with drought, plague, famine,
war and tyranny.

What’s one more bank collapse,
one more novel virus?

The moon is just past full,
the March wind is wet

and warm. There’s no line
at the ATM,

but the dogs seem
restless tonight.

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Abstract: How it Changes Our Focus

Published by Hamraaz on 12-03-2020

-Unpublished research into COVID-19

When hunger, heat and poverty
kill millions of us annually,

why is is there so much focus
on this novel kind of virus?

This is one is not a mystery:
since there is no costly vaccine,

and the rich can still contract it,
they’ll spare no expense to attack it.*


*Note: Proactive measures such as handwashing,
school closures, and other forms of ‘social distancing’
do work and will save many lives.

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We Cannot Fail to Write Love Poems

Published by Hamraaz on 10-03-2020

-after Miguel James

If I write a poem against the CAA and the NRC,
that poem will be a love poem.
And if I write a poem about Chandra Shekhar Azad
leading a march in Daryaganj in support
of the constitution and in violation of Section 144,
or a poem about hundreds of women sitting
day and night on the hard pavement of a main road
during the coldest months of the year,
or a poem that says what everyone knows—
that the police does not serve the people or our laws,
but only the Home Minister and his boss—
those, too, will be love poems.
If I write a poem against the very idea
of exploitation, property or borders,
or a poem about a ragged line of teenage boys,
trembling as they face a wall of police dressed
in riot gear and wielding lathis and guns,
and if one of those boys turns and runs,


while his friend reaches down and picks up
an egg-sized stone and weighs it in his hand
as he lets fly a word that means ‘freedom’
but may later be translated as ‘sedition’
in the court record if he is lucky enough
to live to appear in a court—
those, too, will be love poems.
All the poems that I and you and we
write and sing as we try to hold and show
the courage of people sitting
and standing and fighting
to be treated and seen as human—
all of these may or may not fail
as poems, but not one of them
will fail to be a love poem.

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In the Early Days of the Delhi Fires

Published by Hamraaz on 08-03-2020

We lay awake, trembling.
We no longer understood the rules,
or where we were going.

We stopped posting selfies;
we flirted with memes
and sarcastic stories.

One by one, we got VPN’s.
We shifted to Signal for politics,
gossip and love.

We could not put down
our phones; we could not bear
to look at our phones.

We knew we had it better
than many. We knew it would
get worse.

We fell in love at rallies,
argued on marches and tried
to forget what was coming.


Some of us were detained
and beaten. We knew many
had it worse.

We joked about the new virus—
we hugged each other and laughed
when we coughed.

Some of us called our parents,
some of us started smoking,
some of us secretly prayed.

We sang of heroes, cursed fascists,
shouted brave slogans and worried.
We were so tired.

Some days we thought we’d gone mad.
We remembered Kashmir;
some of us drank too much.

Some nights, we gazed at the moon
from Jasola Vihar or Jamia.
Some mornings, we woke up crying.

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Desh ke Gaddaron Ko

Published by Hamraaz on 06-03-2020

Go fix your gaze on the setting sun,
or even a welder’s torch:

the damage you suffer may result
in blurred vision or blind spots.

Your eyes will heal, but for a while,
when you study a budding tree

you may mistake a parakeet
for a piece of smoky sky.

Some slogans work like that, my friends:
if we train our ears to their blare,

we may perceive only barks and growls,
when we hear our neighbors’ prayers.

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Fever Dreams and Rumours

Published by Hamraaz on 02-03-2020


Did you ever see Mani Ratnam’s
film, Bombay?

In the midst of the terror,
an old man or woman—

it’s difficult to remember now—
raised her hand and said:

Stop! Enough is enough!
And then all through the city,

brave men and women
stepped forward to say,

Rukh Jao! Bas!’
It was as if a great fever

had broken, and suddenly
we could see clearly again.

There was probably music playing,
and we all knew the director’s

hand was there somewhere,
not so much saying,

‘this is how it happened’,
but, ‘this is how it should

have happened’.
Yesterday, we all heard

the rumours; at protest sites,
in markets, via Whatsapp

and Signal, they spread.
And late in the night,

as we lay awake,
trembling and praying—

Please, do not forget or forsake
us or our brothers and sisters—

none of us had any idea
if the fever had returned,

or who was directing this film.

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One More Precious Thing’s Been Sold

Published by Hamraaz on 29-02-2020

Just three weeks ago, on the way
to the polling station

we saw a single, half-eaten
myna bird lying in the road.

Neither of us mentioned it;
the air was already

so heavy that day.
I no longer trust omens

and portents:
just last week, I dreamt

that Amit Shah was in jail,
but last night, I’m sure

I heard him whispering
in Kejriwal’s ear.

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The Importance of Silence
(or What Is To Be Done, Friends)

Published by Hamraaz on 27-02-2020

Maybe you remember a class 5 teacher,
who beat students, sometimes even
leaving bruises, and how he would tell
all the parents at Parent Teacher Meetings
how much it hurt him to have to discipline
unruly children, and how the parents—
even, perhaps, your parents—
would nod somberly, though they knew
he hit too hard.

Or maybe it was the professor who would
call quiet, first year students to his office
for extra help, because he was so concerned
about their progress, and everyone
in the class could see how uncomfortable
those students were, but no one said anything,
because, really, what was there to say,
except that he was so concerned?

Or maybe it was the husband of a neighbor
in your colony, who would tell everyone
about how worried he was about his wife—
she’s seeing a doctor, you know,
sometimes she can’t control her feelings—
and everyone would nod, but also secretly
wonder: does she scream because he beats her?

Or maybe it was the prime minister
of a large country, who invited the president
of a more powerful country to visit

on the day that mobs of organized terrorists
were planning to burn homes, businesses
and places of worship, knowing the police
would stand by or join in, and maybe
that prime minister knew his guest
would not condemn this terror,
thus showing all of us that the world
was powerless to stop it, and maybe
he also knew that all over the capital
and country, people and leaders
and even respectable newspapers
would choose to use words like ‘violent
demonstrations’ and ‘clashes’ to describe
what they understood was probably
a state sponsored pogrom,
and which might be the first step
towards something even graver.

And if we think long and hard about this,
we may come to understand something
that every successful abuser, bully
and tyrant already knows—
the importance and power of silence—
and if we think even harder about the bravery,
solidarity and love that that has sprouted in this city
and this country, in spite of the winter winds,
then we will know what we need to do now.
We will know what is to be done.

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We Must Insist on Saying
Unspeakable Things

Published by Hamraaz on 24-02-2020


When right wing thugs
attack members of a religious
minority in broad daylight
in a nation’s capital
while the police look on
or join in the attacks,
that is not a ‘riot’,
that is a pogrom.

And when armed men in uniform
force their way into homes,
break furniture and take
jewelry and cash,
that is not ‘quelling a riot’,
that is loot and pillage.

And when students of a madrasa
in UP, or any other place,
emerge from jail with bruises
and rectal bleeding,
that is not ‘detention’,
that is torture and rape.

And when officers of the law
take young men accused
of a crime to an empty field
(on a hillside or under a flyover),
and then turn them loose
and shoot them dead as they run,
that is not an ‘encounter’,
that is murder.

And when any government
anywhere in the world,
at any time in history,
accepts, justifies or orders
these and many other crimes,
that is not a ‘democracy’,
that is tyranny.

And when any of us agree
to use words that mask
the truth of these
unspeakable things,
we are not using
‘measured language’
we are telling lies.

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How to Be a Home Minister

Published by Hamraaz on 20-02-2020

-after Jeet Thayil

First, remember, your job
has little to do with homes,
and much to do with security.
You’ll have to choose:
security for whom?

If you choose security
for the powerful and rich,
expect to remain powerful and rich;
throw a party, invite the people
who matter. Understand,
you draw strength from sycophants,
snitches and men who wield
lathis and guns; hold them close.
Study the snake, the guard dog,
the jackal.

If you choose security
for the common people,
you’ll have to move fast—
your time here may be short.
Set your affairs in order,
tell your children you love them,
open libraries and hospitals—
hold festivals in parks. Dance,
sing, have a drink and pray.
Study crows, elephants,
and all creatures that gather
in flocks or herds. Do not fear:
we will not forget you.

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You Always Dream It Before It Arrives

Published by Hamraaz on 18-02-2020

Sometimes as you drift off
you feel your chest tighten;

your ears ring
and your lungs won’t fill,

like you’ve been shut
in a cold, dark vault,

or you are shackled
and shivering

in a cell somewhere
in Kashmir or Karnataka—

maybe they’ll beat you
if you ask to see the sky

or just because it is time
for the beating.

Lock your doors,
turn off the lights,

do not venture out
after dark.

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We Have Been Here Before

Published by Hamraaz on 16-02-2020

I dreamt that, nearing his end,
my father wrote the story of his life
in the language of his grandmother.

I don’t understand the words,
he told me, but I think you
will find it useful someday—

it has something to do
with the way we lived
in the dark times that came

before these dark times.
It is not easy to remember,
he told me. It has something

to do with scattered light,
and how I love you.

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Someday, After the Fire

Published by Hamraaz on 13-02-2020

The Delhi smoke is thick
tonight, my love—

but here on this wide road,
the wind is cool.

Remember how it used
to taste, you say—

like burning plastic, fear,
 and diesel fuel.

This year, there is a new
scent in the air,

like flowers blooming
after a great fire.

I’m searching for a way
back home again—

Perhaps we’ll build a better
home, you say.

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Beyond the Horizon

Published by Hamraaz on 11-02-2020

In UP last year,
93,000 people applied
for 62 government jobs—

jobs that required
a Class 5 education
and bicycle riding skills;

of the applicants, 3,700
held PhD’s, and 20,000
held post graduate degrees.

You have read many stories
like this and on some level
you understand it’s likely

the current system
is running into limitations
that education and growth

will be unable to overcome.
Western environmentalists
call it a climate crisis

and offer a Green New Deal;
new communists call it
a secular crisis of capitalism

and say it is hopeless to try
to see beyond the horizon
of a system that conditions

even the way we make love.
We’re all looking for a way
through: you, me,

the Chief Minister of UP,
and the crores who may
or may not have documents,

but who nonetheless haul
our trash, sweep our roads
and build our tall towers each day.

Some choose suicide or struggle,
some put their faith in fascism;
and some keep their heads

down and patiently wait
for some kind of a new
day to dawn.

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What They’ve Been Feeding Us

Published by Hamraaz on 09-02-2020

This time, my barber does not lower
his voice as he announces:
They fed us hatred for weeks,

and a few do like the taste of that,
but most of us know it won’t fill your belly—
the broom has swept Delhi again!

Later, you tell me about the persistent
pain in your stomach: it’s been a week,
and I know it’s just food poisoning,

but it feels different this time—
like I have a gut full of grief,
or dread.

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Rupture

Published by Hamraaz on 09-02-2020


You tell me that you’re always sad;
you want to run away, but ask,
How can I run from myself?

I want to say you’re not alone;
lakhs, no crores are asking
questions just like this—

all over the world
rich and poor are asking them,
the children of refugees

and rulers are asking them,
academics and experts
are publishing reports about them,

pharmaceutical representatives,
psychiatrists, and self-help gurus
are making their living off of them.

This is not new, but it is urgent

and growing; and the darknessthat has fallen around us now

is just one sign of a larger,
grinding thing: we all sense
we’re approaching a rupture

that the old tricks of war,
debt and growth may finally
fail to delay—

and none of us can imagine
what lies beyond that horizon.
Friend, I can offer no clear

answer to your question,
but it has something to do
with solidarity and love,

how we’ll all have to
cross over together.

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For an Undecided Autowala on Aurobindo Marg

Published by Hamraaz on 07-02-2020

Yes, there have been many disappointments.
No, Ola and Uber were not defeated.
In spite of what you see as good intentions,
you feel the broom gave up too soon, retreated.
And who will find good jobs for those in need?
No one I know has convincing answers.
We dreamed last time we’d sweep the city clean
of inequality and other cancers!
No single man or party has the strength
to stand against the ones with the real power—
yes, all of us together may well fail,
but divided, we’ll be forced to bow and cower!
This vote is not a cure, friend, let’s talk straight—
now is not the time to vote for hate.

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It Is Difficult To Remember What Comes Next

Published by Hamraaz on 06-02-2020

It is difficult to remember when it was or could be, but the
August sun was low, the air was clear and damp, and the roads
were still, except for the rattle and ring of cycles and bells. We
were walking through narrow lanes, offering to sing songs
about the songs we’d all sung during the darkness. A few doors
declined to open, and from time to time insults fell on us from
behind shuttered windows: immigrant, infiltrator, anti-
national, traitor— and other hard words which no longer
possessed any power or meaning. But on most corners, small
crowds greeted us with slaps on the back and many joined in
when we sang. In the late afternoon, as we crossed a muddy
field newly planted with tomato and pepper seedlings, a boy
ran up from behind us and demanded to know if we
remembered the song we’d been singing on Rajpath when the
police threw down their lathis and guns and melted into the
rising sea we’d all become. We solemnly nodded, then one of
us sputtered, and we all started laughing and shouting and
singing together. Later, we agreed that the song still tasted cool
and sweet every time we sang it, like water drawn from a hand
pump, like freedom.

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Tender Comrade

Published by Hamraaz on 04-02-2020

In your dream, thin corpses
hang in a cold, dark room.

Strong men come and silently
slit them open—

they are harvesting handfuls
of organs or pearls.

As you tell me this,
news of another Jamia shooting

and more election rally hatred
streams across screens all over Delhi.

What have I to offer,
tender comrade, friend?

Night has fallen,
the horizon is near,

we’re all fighting
and longing for light.

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Striding Man

Published by Hamraaz on 02-02-2020

-for Shadab Najar

In the video, it all moves so fast,
but when the frame freezes,
some things become clear.

We see a boy or young man,
mouth wide, as if he
is smiling as he shouts—

in his right hand, a pistol;
it is pointed towards
the sky. Behind him,

a line of police look on,
one is leaning on his lathi;
to one side, a cameraman films.

And now look at the man
with the long, wavy hair, striding
towards the man with the gun—

his arms are down,
his body open, as if to say,
I am not afraid of you,

and you have nothing
to fear from me,
as if to say,

Hold on—
come, let’s sit and talk.
There is one more thing

every parent will see
when they study this photo
of the striding man:

someone, somewhere
raised this one right,
this one is one to be proud of.

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Speak

Published by Hamraaz on 01-02-2020

‘A girl, as part of the play’s dialogue, spoke
of beating anyone who would ever dare ask her
for her documents with a chappal’. -The Wire

The Emperor has no clothes:
every child knows the story;
our rulers have also learned it—
they understand its great power.

Every child knows the story:
the bully who’s secretly weak;
our rulers have also learned it—
why else charge a school with sedition?

A bully who’s secretly weak,
or wolves or demons disguised;
why else charge a school with sedition?
What do they fear? A chappal?

Wolves or demons disguised,
our rulers know what they’ve hidden.
What do they fear? A chappal—
or unafraid people who speak?

Our rulers know what they’ve hidden;
they understand its great power.
But unafraid people will speak:
The Emperor has no clothes!

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A Seditious Song!

Published by Hamraaz on 31-01-2020

I’m dreaming seditious dreams,
I’m singing a seditious song!
I’m loving my neighbors,
don’t care where they’re from—
let’s abolish all checkpoints
and borders…
as we sing a seditious song!

I’m dreaming seditious dreams,
I’m singing a seditious song!
I’m praying for freedom
from fear and from want—
let’s plant crops, not walls,
on our borders…
as we sing a seditious song!

I’m dreaming seditious dreams,
I’m singing a seditious song!
I’m reading Ambedkar,
he makes perfect sense—
let’s annihilate things that
divide us…
as we sing a seditious song!

I’m dreaming seditious dreams,
I’m singing a seditious song!
Some days let’s be boys,
some days let’s be girls—
let’s fall in love when
we want to…
and we’ll sing a seditious song!

I’m dreaming seditious dreams,
I’m singing a seditious song!
Let’s open a library,
we’ll read what we want—
we’ll argue, and think
together…
as we sing a seditious song!

I’m dreaming seditious dreams,
I’m singing a seditious song!
It’s natural to cry,
to feel anxious and scared—
let’s heal each other
and struggle…
as we sing a seditious song!

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The Anti-Corruption CM Speaks his Mind

Published by Hamraaz on 29-01-2020

Meanwhile in the capital, the CM speaks
at a town hall about unemployment,
the price of onions, and the danger
of Hindu spies from Pakistan.
He does not mention the possibility
that torture, custodial rape,
and preventative detention
of citizens and politicians
might be among the gravest
forms of modern corruption.

The next evening, at a Golf
Links wedding reception,
guests sipping wine
and Kashmiri Kava
murmur and sigh as he
and his entourage sweep
in to greet the happy couple.

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