-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
-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
-August 15, 2021 Vaccines, free for all. How many friends died waiting? Thanks, PM Modi. Someone’s in our phones. Do you sense them listening? They can’t hack our dreams. What of our farmers? They’re still here, they never left— I dream Shaheen Bagh.Comments closed
-Delhi, June 4 I lied when I told you the worst had passed; we’d be back on the streets in June— and we’d win; and I lied when I said I’d dreamed this wave would recede by the next full moon— but it did, and we will.Comments closed
-Delhi, May 15 १. Our PM works hard on his palace and speeches; ‘Let’s be positive.’ Vaccine centre’s closed; an old woman asks, ‘How long?’ ‘Try again at dawn.’ २. Amit Shah’s police have withdrawn from Delhi streets; still the sirens wail. They locked up our friends, but did not send oxygen: we will not forget. ३. Far from the city, neighbors die of breathlessness; something is not right. Bodies float downstream: this is not a metaphor, just friends we couldn’t save.Comments closed
I dreamed of hillsides littered with bundles of burning wood: death is all around us; there is no other way to read this. I woke to news of more bodies gathering in the Ganga: it was a kind of protest; there is no other way to read this.Comments closed
Outside the emergency
department doors,
a woman sobs
as she clings
to a trembling,
straight-backed man.
As we pass them,
everything shakes:
the smoky clouds,
the hospital walls—
bushes, flowers, trees—
the footpath
under our feet.
These two are holding up
a piece of the sky tonight;
it has broken,
I know
you can feel it.
Comments closedOn Friday, your mother’s cousin, on Sunday, a comrade’s father; today, a friend you just messaged— you wish you’d said more, and sooner. As the rest of us count and worry, afraid to answer our phones, the PM plans his new palace; it is time for him to step down!Comments closed
one man cuts the distanced queue to buy a tube of toothpaste; we shake our heads, but in this heat, who has the strength to shout? Some time later, another man approaches, and says in a shaking voice: Please, I need two face shields, please— I must go to the hospital now. We shuffle our feet and bow our heads; for once, we’re all glad to give way.Comments closed
-after Kabir Friends, I have seen astonishing sights: a great seer slain by invisible invaders; proud men cueing for buses, or liquor, to flee a failing capital; kings and princes kissing their master’s hidden hand while their subjects struggle to breathe— I have seen the fevered rich party, then pack their bags while pyres burn day and night. Last week I saw one woman turn her scooty into an ambulance, and just now I saw another woman sitting on the footpath in front of a hospital— she is less than a mile from where I stay; she is sobbing, my friends, she is sobbing.Comments closed
(or how to ration vaccines according to preexisting wealth) We’re running low on vaccines, and Adar Poonawalla’s been clear: he says he wants ‘super profits’; why shouldn’t he have a good year? Modi Ji thought through his options; and decided to just the states compete in the market with hospitals: you’ll get one, if you can pay.Comments closed
When I saw the video of pyres burning in an open field because, contrary to what one would expect based on official figures, the crematoriums were overflowing, I remembered that spring day, two years ago, when I saw you last, and how your mother’s shoulders slumped as the steel doors slammed, and how late that night, after the tears and prayers and stories boiled down, we sat in silence under a spinning fan, and then how she looked at me and said, I know you know I loved her— but still, I feel I have failed.Comments closed
Our Prime Minister’s clutching the shoulders of a child, and yes they’re in masks, but what happened to physical distance? I’m almost afraid to ask. She may be a long lost daughter, who lives with him safely in stealth— or maybe the PM’s PR team failed in public health.Comments closed
Far from home, lost and alone, stillness greets you as you enter the station. On the platform below, Mr. Bachchan is growling about masks and washing and keeping distance. There’s a rumble and rush, and as your train nears, a one legged pigeon swoops down and whispers: What news of the farmers— the TV’s gone silent— have we forgotten we can’t live without them?Comments closed
some 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
-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?Comments closed
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.Comments closed
-‘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.Comments closed
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.Comments closed
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.Comments closed
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 hereComments closed
Yesterday’s tomatoes pucker on the kitchen counter, and uneaten pulao turns under a midnight fan. Meanwhile in Surat, police fire tear gas at workers demanding the right to go home— beware my friends, the season is changing, and there’s more than one sickness loose in the land.Comments closed
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.Comments closed
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.Comments closed
‘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.Comments closed
-Jahanpanah, 1341Comments closed
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.
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.
Comments closed
When Trump met Modi in February,
we bought three billion bucks of his military
technology and flying machines—
now he wants our hydroxychloroquine.
If Modi had been a better tactician,
he’d have said, Yes, under one condition:
keep your deadly helicopters,
send food and masks and ventilators!
‘Man posts ‘‘no ventilators in Ludhiana” on
Facebook, booked for sedition’-Indian Express
Sure, we could put a ventilator
at every intersection—
but who needs ventilators
when we have so few infections?
Either way, we can’t have
any disaffection
(if you don’t agree, we might
charge you with sedition).
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!
Comments closed
Our worries are nothing compared
to those stranded miles from home,
to those who are already hungry,
to those who are sick and alone.
Last night, you dreamt we both left you,
I dreamt my father was gone—
in the flat across the back alley,
a girl cries each morning at dawn.
Comments closed
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.
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?
Last night we argued on the phone—
like most of our quarrels,
it was about something small,
and I think we both knew
it was really just a way to avoid
saying what is too difficult
to say right now:
you are so far away,
and if you need me,
I have no way to reach you.
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.
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.
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.
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.
-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.
