-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
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
Modi met with Biden about free trade, China, and more; no mention of riots, drone strikes or bias, the threat of nuclear war— That’s not what this was for! said the lizard outside my door.Comments closed
-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.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
-‘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
‘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
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.
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.