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.
-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
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 closedI’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 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
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 closedsome things diminish: the scent of morning dew rising off sparse grass; news of frying food or what the cat killed three days back. After sundown, in crowded market lanes we still hear the clamour of hawkers, horns, engines, bells, but we may miss the shift in the air as we move from smoldering coals towards crackling wood— or the difference between distant rain and the leaking main under the road behind the park. Most nights, my dreams still smell like worried sweat and roses— but last night I was locked in Amit Shah’s almari; it smelled of moth balls mixed with anger, fear and whiskey.Comments closed
-One Future Friday in New Delhi He was grumbling as he swept the floor of the Press Club of India’s bar. From where I sat, he looked vaguely and unpleasantly familiar, like a villain in an old TV serial, or a character from a childhood nightmare. I didn’t pay him much mind because the TV in the corner had started playing a story about next week’s big state visit. I was just a literary freelancer, but even I could tell this was important because all the political reporters had stopped drinking and were taking notes. Apparently, Greta Thunberg would be hosted by PM Zargar, along with Umar Khalid, Chandra Shekhar Azad and Devangana Kalita. They’d be taking the cycle path that ran along the newly cleaned Yamuna all the way to the Okhla Bird Sanctuary, where the main ceremonies would happen. The political reporters started making calls right away— most of them began with, ‘Hey, um, do you have a cycle I could borrow?’ I noticed the sweeper was now gently banging his head against a wall in the corner. I got a little worried, so I asked my friend if we should do something about it. ‘Ah, you didn’t recognize him? That’s just Amit Shah—he’ll be fine. Of course he hates working here, but he knows better than most, it sure beats Tihar Jail.’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
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.Comments closed
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.Comments closed
-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!Comments closed
but the sparrows outside my window were debating the evening news— it had something to do with Amit Shah, and the kites that circle the drain. It had something to do with a murder of crows, solidarity, justice and strength.Comments closed