I was thinking of your poem,
‘When Moonlight Moves Into the Dark’
as a comrade and I walked past the remnants
of one of Delhi’s once wild forests.
From our left came the sound
of rain soaked branches and wind,
from our right, the grumble and pop
of late night traffic. Across the road,
beyond the rush of bikes and cars,
loomed the homes of the city’s rich—
and I asked myself,
Who owns this hauled-out wealth?
At that moment, I heard you whisper:
All the riches hidden behind closed doors
are the forest.
They want you dead, Varavara Rao,
they think they can silence and cage you,
but we know that is not how this will end.
Not soon, but soon enough, we’ll rouse
ourselves from this nightmare to find
vines entwined everywhere,
flames blossoming new worlds.
*Note: Italicized lines by Varavara Rao from
the poem cited, translated by D. Venkat Rao