Poems about the dark times.
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.
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.