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Tag: #DelhiPogrom

Still No Eternal Peace?

-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!
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Ghazal Against Bulldozers

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. 
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No Escape

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, 

and the raucous crows  
won’t stop their calls:
Bulldozers, bulldozers– 

they’ll be here soon!
Bulldozers, bulldozers,
what will you do?
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I Fall Asleep Reading a Poem by Akhil Katyal

-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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False Narratives

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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Now, They Are Coming for the Doctors

-‘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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Let’s Not Forget What’s Coming Next

‘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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In the Early Days of the Delhi Fires

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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Fever Dreams and Rumours

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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