Yes, some of ourComments closed
feelings are ancient:
how we yearn for a lover,
like we yearn for a breeze
when our soggy shirts cling
in the damp August heat–
but this August,
some things feel new:
how the king and we know
his power has waned–
his thousand year rule
could end any day.
Meanwhile Chanakya frets
as he paces darkened halls–
he’s making late night calls;
he’s pounding on MHA walls.
Stacked on the back of his cycle,Comments closed
three shiny slabs of ice
are melting before my eyes–
how many friends will we lose
before rains bring relief
from this killing heat?
Meanwhile children in Rafah
are burning in tents
and schools–
we must uncover our eyes,
grieve and organise–we must
find a name for this fire.
-for Sharjeel Imam and Gulfisha Fatima You tear down a party flag as we cut through the back lane– I warn: CCTV; you scold: Control your worry– How many have they jailed? Let’s pray they are beaten soon! I concede you’re right, then I wink at the waxing moon.Comments closed
I’m schooling myself against hope: This is all too little, too late, but then after this long, lonely day, you text: there’s work to do, come– we have such a very short time, the sun’s left behind a cool breeze, we have such a very short time– I put down this poem and goComments closed
Spring has arrived in Delhi as the Supreme Court scolds SBI again and India Today live streams the PM– later, on the edge of the city police tend gardens of cement and spikes, and the rich gaze out their windows at razor wire glinting in moonlight– these days even the tops of small colony walls are sprouting rows of broken glass: like a slim beds of thorny wildflowers, or rows of broken glass.Comments closed
Two nights ago, you shook your head at the saffron flags that line the narrow lane behind our flat like wilted marigolds– They are a kind of anger, a kind of challenge, you said. Last night, we watched news of razor wire, roadblocks and wind-blown clouds of teargas– The farmers are back like spring flowers, you said– a kind of love, and also a challenge.Comments closed
-Recalling Umar Khalid’s latest bail plea while reading Langston Hughes on Republic Day It might shrivel– or fester and run, stink, explode or crust over– but the taste of the air today tells me, for now, it’s likely to smoulder.Comments closed
The ‘not-a-morning-person’ in his recent insta poem looks a whole lot like the man right next to me– and yes, I too am sleepy as I swipe to the next story: Israeli-US bombs, the bunker busting ones. Could those bombs shatter these Delhi Metro tunnels? (They may break the ‘Gaza Metro’, but they won’t break Palestine.)Comments closed
-Kotla Mubarakpur, November, 2023 I won’t comment on the moon, or the way the chemist shops were bathed in neon light– forget the smoke and dust, forget the swerving bikes– you took my hand that night. Today I woke at dawn, choking back a sob, you looked at me, worried. I told you, I was fine but did not tell you this: I’d dreamt I’d been buried– and yes, it’s true, I’m fine– I can stand and breathe, but also, I can see– buried friends will haunt all our dreams until Palestine is free.Comments closed
The Delhi air turned cool, so we set out into the night; we argued about the future– you said, I was too optimistic. The G20-potted-plants were wilting or already dead; we cursed our leaders and wondered if curses were now illegal. We knew the answer was yes– and that bombs were falling in Gaza; at this moment, children were calling, Amma, when will this stop? When it rained, we ducked for cover, I thought of Umar Khalid– the wind smelled of woken soil– I prayed somehow he could smell it.Comments closed
Whether he’s
a terrorist
or a family man–
and whether he’s
in Canada,
UP or Pakistan–
when a state kills
without a trial,
don’t name it encounter–
name it, call it,
what it is:
either war or murder.
Comments closed-reading Sakshi Malik’s response to the FIR My grandfather was a wrestler– he said wrestlers understand power. Home ministers understand power, as does Brij Bhushan Singh. The police understands power, Sakshi Malik understands power– she says she has ‘hard calls’ to make– she’s wondering if we’ll stand with her.Comments closed
Every morning last week, two butterflies appeared near the bush by our back window– they flickered there, like static from your mother’s old radio, or faraway lightning– or j0y. This week, they’re suddenly gone– like the tailorbirds’ storm-broken nest, or your mother– or Umar Khalid. How long has it been since they took him? you ask as we enter the park.Comments closed
A ten-rupee tarnished sun rains heat on Hauz Rani: the Afghan baker sweats over his hot stove; so far from home, this man– I think of Umar Khalid. Your shirt is robin blue– we buy a piece of bread.Comments closed
You say that if an AI ever copied me, there’d be a smoky sun, or a lonely, moonlit dog– or a lizard or a snake, or even Amit Shah; it’d close with Umar Khalid or Sharjeel Imam. Yes, I should try harder, to be original– (but also, friends, I confess, I don’t object to viral :-)Comments closed
Sometimes in the epics, demons fall on heroes as they pass through forests– like the thugs who grabbed you, late night, from a bus stop– they took you to the station, gave you to the police, who tried to extract money from you and your family. It is an age-old racket– you had stolen nothing, they had no cause to beat you.Comments closed
During the pandemic, his family fled the city– now he’s back in school, but he’s far behind. His teachers know ‘inspection’ means ‘notebook scrutiny’, so they have him copy words he cannot read.Comments closed
when her family came to Delhi
she was denied admission,
and now she still can’t read,
which’ll lessen competition:
those who’ve had good schooling
get higher education–
those who haven’t, don’t–
our modern day Partition.
Comments closedSome mornings I stand in the metro, or sit in an auto or bus, and consider my breath or the wind– or the beautiful faces of strangers. Some days, I pray for my parents, some days for Umar Khalid– imprisoned because he refused to put profit before love and freedom. Did you hear about Junaid and Nasir? Residents of Ghatmeeka, found dead in their car last week– burned alive, burned alive, burned alive.Comments closed
-Republic Day, 2023 I asked the AI for a poem, in the style of Kolatkar, about justice and Umar Khalid– I said please, I asked three times, and each time the AI replied: ‘An error has occurred’.Comments closed
-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
-for Umar Khalid I was holding you tight and praying as we weaved through autos and cars– you said we were already late for our train to the south– and the sea. At some point, moon swallowed sun, or was it the other way round? We told lies to strangers and laughed– we cursed the Delhi police. Before dawn, I woke and was struck by the sound of the call to prayer, I remembered Umar Khalid– I prayed for the souls of blind judges.Comments closed
At the Kashmiri Gate metro station, a child in a bright blue dress breaks free from her parents, runs laughing– into the cool, rushing air. And then what? She turns and returns– and then what? More laughing and growing– and then what? She figures out something– and finds others who see she is right. And then what? Her ideas spread, but they jail her– like Natasha Narwhal. And then what? We all see she’s right and come into the streets like a flood. And then what? Life is still hard, but noone sleeps hungry or cold; we still struggle and we still love– we struggle because we love.Comments closed
-August 15, 2022 Some day soon, you’ll be watching a pair of tiny squirrels chase each other around a muddy park– or you’ll hear a young girl laugh as she rides an oversized cycle, hard through rain-soaked lanes– and for a time you may forget the fading light– but later you’ll read more friends have been charged for reading namaz, or that Hany Babu is still in jail– or you’ll see a brown kite fly away with a squirrel– and you’ll remember the darkness and tremble.Comments closed
-for Mohammed Zubair On the day Mohammed Zubair was released from Tihar Jail, sheets of rain bounced so high that for a few moments the ground all around shone and bloomed– a watery garden, suddenly sprung from a muddy, North Delhi lane. That evening, after the snarled streets and soaked shoes, I went out to buy a mango to celebrate the news. The man at the fruit cart was smiling: See how clean the wind tastes tonight– perhaps, the weather is changing.Comments closed
We’re huddled at the junction
of five long, dusty paths:
a swollen, hammering sun;
withered wheat and grass.
As weary families near,
a bald man points and screams:
Look at how they pray–
it’s their fault, can’t you see?
Next morning, when I ask,
you say: It’s obvious–
That was just Amit Shah
trying to distract us.
That night, as our fan rattles
we sweat into the sheets;
there’s thunder in the distance–
we pray for rain and sleep.
Comments closed-for Professor Ratan Lal The feelings of powerful people are so easily hurt, lately– the police investigate satire as if wit were a felony. Reason, humour, history are now enemies of the state; solidarity’s called ‘terror’; they see love and say ‘hate’. But what do they find most painful? A Dalit who speaks his mind, friends! (If Ambedkar were alive today, Tihar Jail is where you’d find him.)Comments closed
After the abrogation, but before Shaheen Bagh– the Ayodhya verdict was in the news, we all sensed a deepening dark. I think we were in Kolkata– or maybe I have that wrong; we were celebrating your love– I wanted to write you a song. It might have included lovers holding hands under tube lights– maybe dust, or my father’s hair– I tried, but it didn’t feel right. My friend, I did not tell you, but that was the day I decided to learn how to sing of the dark times, to banish the censors inside.Comments closed
I was sitting near the back at the launch of G.N. Saibaba’s book of poems and letters from prison when he slipped into the seat on my left– I might not have noticed, but his white hair was glowing like a Christmas star, or a tube light hung on the wall behind the priest at at Midnight Mass. His tremors were mostly gone; I only saw him shake once– when A.S. Vasantha Kumari described the solitary confinement cells in the Nagpur Central Jail. He disappeared before the Q and A, but later as I stood outside with friends giving thanks for the cool May rain we heard him whisper as he passed: Breathe deep, comrades, breathe deep– tonight you can smell the forest.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
Once while going by sleeper from Delhi to Bengaluru I dreamt I was trapped in a broken mine shaft, and waking, I cried out in terror. Now I dream of distant fires and wonder how far they will spread– there’s no way to know, but this much is plain: there’s no glory in war, just sorrow and pain, there’s no glory in war, my dear friends.Comments closed
–While reading Ilya Kaminsky, I Think of Umar Khalid Just outside Qutub Minar there’s a line of buses and cars filled with all kinds of folks, looking for all kinds of things– some have come to lose themselves; some, just want to get home; walking back to the metro, we pass flocks of uneasy dogs. Later, I’m reading Ilya Kaminsky, under a spinning fan– we may not live in a mythical town, but they’ve jailed the best among us.Comments closed
Armed men lining city streets, reporters sent to jail; intestines spilled in sand or snow, apartment buildings, rubble. Last night I dreamt of fire and bombs, I woke at dawn, trembling– I asked you for the news from home– you said Kashmir is angry.Comments closed
From a West Delhi roof, the moon is high and bright, the heat will be here soon, but the wind is cool tonight. Last night I dreamed of my father, and how my mother said, he cried when he lost his job, he sobbed when he lost his job. I’m thinking of your brother, and how he lost his job; he has no place of his own, he has no place of his own. Our leaders peddle hate and lies, and still we vote for them– we trade our hope for hate and lies, again and again and again.Comments closed
I’m dressed in my best at the wedding hall or is it a gym in Saket? I’m not ready to marry but don’t want to fight, so I slip out for a smoke. I meet a sweeper, we chat for a moment, he shows me a hollow wall– there’s cash behind it, he says, please take some– it’s black, but free, for now. Later, I’m sipping tea at a dhabba somewhere in Dhaula Kuan; a plateless car pulls up and then a tinted window rolls down: Putin and Shah laugh as they ask for samosas and directions; Ayodhya’s their goal, there’s not much time, the fifth phase is nearly here. (Just before dawn, the northern sky fills with neon lightning– thunder follows fast behind: the sound of young men dying.)Comments closed
-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
The emperor is worried: first the plague, and now the council of ministers turning against his favourite viceroy– and what of the guilds– how can one trust those who build, weave or reap? It’s time to take strong action: re-invade that northern region, imprison a merchant from Bactria or Persia, announce a horse sacrifice– or better still, a pogrom; well placed fear yields division and hate– (We’ve done it before, sir, we know how it works: just say the word, and we’ll make it so.)Comments closed
The two year old child is kicking the mud outside the flooded playground: I don’t like the rain, I want to go back, take me home, take me home, take me home! On a flyover in Punjab, an old man kicks the floor of his armored car: It's been twenty minutes, I want to go back, take me home, take me home, take me home!Comments closed
-writing from Tihar Jail, Umar Khalid quotes Faiz Ahmad Faiz In the photos the young lovers post, they are smiling as they sip from the same bottle of cola, they are sharing a plate of chaat, they are sitting on a seesaw, under the bright, winter moon. Some nights he says, I’m cold, please warm my hands. Some nights she says, Let us pray now for Umar Khalid; I hear he is lonely inside.Comments closed
-January 1, 2022 Flocks of sheep drift down from the hills, like dry leaves blown free by a gust of winter wind– they block highways, refuse any compromise. In Lutyens’ Delhi, the Home Minister paces and shouts: Who’s in charge of the sheep? I told you to crush all resistance!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
-Lodhi Garden, December, 2021 I was reading that story by Manto about two old friends, now soldiers, fighting each other in Kashmir, and I was thinking about how the distance between us has grown, but also how we sat on that bench today in the smoky, fading sun– we were talking about fascim and our fathers, but really about ourselves– and how you said, It’s tough because we all know there’s only one way any of our stories ever end. I forgot to ask you about the last time we saw Mangalesh Dabral, or what you think about Varavara Rao. You told me you believe in what you’ve written, and anyway, most of the time they don’t actually put poets in jail. But sometimes they do, and my friend if they do, we will stand by you, I promise we will.Comments closed
-for Sabbah Haji When I heard the Kashmiri educator had been jailed for calling a general a ‘war criminal’, a serious question came to my mind: How often does anyone in any large country rise to the level of general without running afoul at least once of some part of Article 8 of the UN’s ‘Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court’? And forgetting generals, how 0ften does anyone become even a DCP in any police force anywhere without condoning or ignoring ‘torture or inhuman treatment’ (to say nothing of encounters, which might be classified as acts of ‘willful killing’)? Just as some countries are kingdoms dressed up as republics, this is an appeal, disguised as a poem.Comments closed
Omicron’s arrived,
be it mild or strong–
Delhi smells of smoke;
Amit Shah’s an animal.
Still, let’s celebrate–
Sudha Bharadwa: out of jail;
the farmers have proven
when we unite, we do not fail.
Comments closedThese days on the metro, I keep seeing this pair: the old guy with his thick white beard, and his orange-robed friend— the one who’s always smiling. They’re building homes and universities; handing out jobs and free vaccines. I feel dizzy sometimes, thinking about the possibilities: a superhighway to Lanka; my very own flying chariot.Comments closed
Last week I crossed a narrow bridge strung over a wide canyon, and as I crossed, I felt a hole open in my belly. Last night under a swollen moon, I dreamt of Umar Khalid; I heard him laughing in his cell: The farmers have prevailed!Comments closed
-Dyal Singh College Road, 9 P.M. Emerging from the metro, I met a swollen moon, I sipped a little smoke, tripped on the NIA. There was Hany Babu singing out a lecture— it was so soft and clear; it sounded like a poem. I sat down on the footpath, I shivered, yes, I cried: how can we celebrate with friends like this inside?Comments closed
The marching farmers fall, like wheat beneath a fast combine; young and old, they fall, stuck from behind, struck from behind! Watch the video: it is so clear, my friends, so clear; they’re marching peacefully: they do not fear, they do not fear. I see my father there; his tall, bent back, his slow, slow gait. The fallen ones will rise— like seeds, that is their fate, our fate!Comments closed
you remember how often you misunderstand important things— like that time the drunken drain cleaner looked straight at you and said, Of course, I read poetry, or the night you saw the shopkeeper you’d argued with days before, wearing no mask and laughing, and how at that moment, he looked just like your closest friend— or yesterday, when you heard the young fruit seller on your corner tell the woman next to you, yes, he was looking for books— ninth standard, and schools have been closed for so long— and you suddenly remembered the relationship between the price of labour and rice and pears— and the cost of capitalism.Comments closed
Patriotic schools, large flags— prayers and promises; our CM’s studied Gandhiji; says Ram Rajya is his goal. Let’s study Ravidas, Kabir, Phule and Ambedkar; instead of ‘soft Hidutva’, friends, let's learn to live together.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
Last night, I dreamt my sister spoke up in the council, and when I rose to back her, I felt a gentle tremor. No matter if it’s UP, Kashmir or even Delhi, when your sibling stands, you must stand up with them.Comments closed
-Hauz Rani, 6:24 p.m. Let’s walk out into the light, my love! Why not? There’s time before night, my love. This sky is hard to define, it’s true; both bats and birds are in flight, my love. Recall how we shivered for hours that night— Shaheen Bagh was crowded and bright, my love. This morning, rain washed our smokey sky; Hany Babu’s still jailed tonight, my love. A coward, yes; I’ve surrendered my name— to this broken world, I write my love.Comments closed
These days, we’re told we must be thrilled with drones— our lives? Recorded and fulfilled with drones! to-touch-an-emu is proclaimed a meme: not for dancing; he’s just skilled with drones. Jeff Bezos loves to lower labour costs; in his dreams, our skies are filled with drones. In wartime, hunger sprouts in fertile soil— how many fields have you seen tilled with drones? Obama promised fewer casualties, but did he count the blood he spilled with drones? As US soldiers fled Kabul last week, reports emerged: more children killed with drones. You wake shaking, mouth my name, then sob, While we all slept, see what they built with drones!Comments closed
-September, 2021 Just before the downpour, I thought of Umar Khalid, and how many days he’s spent in Tihar jail. Later, the still sky clung to us like a soggy face mask, and we heard the hard, sharp shouts of thin, soaked men; we’re all just mud and water come alive, comrades— Come alive, we have so little time!Comments closed
In the midst of this summer of fires and floods, UN scientists announce the world will continue to warm for 30 years no matter what we do, and absent immediate, drastic action, this trend will intensify around the time our neighbors’ young children have children of their own. Three days after the report is released (and 19 years and 10 months after the US invades Afghanistan), Kandahar falls, and soon after that, Kabul, and then we all remember: some changes nest for decades before they hatch and fly; like the water deep beneath us— when will our taps run dry?Comments closed
-August 15, 2021 I spent hours last night trying to write a ghazal that included this line: unbroken, Umar Khalid’s still in jail, and also this one: they aim to break your soul and will in jail. ‘School teachers’ and ‘freedom fighters’ figured in it, but I gave up in the end because it really all came down to this: They aim to break your soul and will in jail; unbroken, Umar Khalid’s still in jail.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
Last night as it rained, I dreamed I was a child; my parents were both sick— I brought them tea and stew. This morning on the road, a man scowled as he weighed a shard of broken glass— he was a mystery. Some things, we must infer; some things, we’ll never know: who is in our phones? How did it come to this?Comments closed
Last night, far from shore, and ringed by roiling water, I sensed a gentle wind calling me towards the shallows. In the morning, I searched the papers for some sort of hidden meaning; they think they killed you, Stan Swamy, but I can still hear you breathing.Comments closed
Just a week ago, my mother called to say my father had fallen again; they were taking things day-by-day. Life’s hard enough in the end, the way we all slip and weaken— how could they make Stan Swamy pass his last months in prison?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
The day my mother calls to confess she’d woken in tears (she still misses her mother, after so many years), I am blessed to meet a six-week-old baby girl; drunk on her mother’s milk, she smiles as she sleeps sprawled on a charpai, like a pehlwan after a hard-won match. Later that night, I read that Stan Swamy can no longer walk or bathe or even feed himself, and how he’s told the court he does not prefer a hospital to Taloja Jail; he prefers to suffer and die in prison— or to go home: ‘Whatever happens to me, I’d like to be with my own.’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
When I tell you what it means to me to live in Delhi, I won’t use trending music or a dozen flashing photos approved by the Ministry of Tourism— just a few words to conjure images-- that pair of young women brushing shoulders as they sip tea on the edge of the dusty maidan— or the thin, strong man in the next lane over who right now is stripping off his shirt as he assesses a growing pool of stinking water— and on a good day, this might be enough to get you to consider one or two simple ideas: we can remake this world; we can, and we must, my friends.Comments closed
-for Natasha Narwal and Devangana Kalita Maybe it’s just habit, but even all these months after they locked down the city and took away friends of your friends, sometimes you still float away at that moment when light’s fading and the first bats are flying; and when you wake with a start it is already dark— you’re not sure where you are, but you hear the door bang— and then you’re relieved to find it’s a friend who wants to play cards— or the newspaper man, bringing the bill— not someone who’s come to take you away: we don’t need police, they spread only fear.Comments closed
Do you struggle against the deepening dark because you read Marx or Ambedkar? Or was it the bus driver who whispered in your ear, or the teacher who failed you, or the neighbors who forced you to say, ‘Everything is fine’? Or was the way the world treated your parents— or was it the way they still loved you?Comments closed
Do not call us terrorists for protesting bad laws, or jail us for laughing at gods or Amit Shah. Let us love those we love; don’t tell us how to pray; and when we do equal work, give us equal pay. In jail, grant us straws, if we tremble when we drink— warm blankets when it’s cold, and books so we can think. Do not molest us or beat us (in jail or in undisclosed locations before you take us to jail.) Do not torture us in any way: no broken bones or bruises, no solitary confinement; we need space and time to sleep, water and soap to wash. Tell our families where we are. Do not take us in the night to a field or flyover, and then shoot us before our trial. Do not shoot us in broad daylight and then call us terrorists.Comments closed
You cradle the purring cat like your mother cradled you in the old photo you keep by your bed— you know the cat is not a child, and neither are you, but often in April, as the ceiling fan gently spins you, you remember her tender hands.Comments closed
Umar Khalid smiles and raises his fist on his way out of court, and an 83 year old priest is denied bail in the 'collective interest of the community'. Meanwhile in Myanmar, protesters disappear in the night, and a striking worker tells a reporter, 'They are the king now, but we are not their servants.'Comments closed
We stood in the shadows and ate, it looked like a coronation; how we got in, I’m not sure, perhaps we snuck in the back. It could have been Jaipur or London, or maybe the Central Vista— the music was loud and fast, and most of the crowd was dancing. You said you heard screams from below, but nobody seemed to notice— you looked like you might pass out; I felt the room start to spin. A painting that hung by the throne showed fires and families fleeing; another showed farmland circled with walls of concrete and wire. A man in a suit whispered, smiling: We’ve finally figured it out— business is booming, my friend, the good times are here at last.Comments closed
- an Ashoka trustee texts Pratap Bhanu Mehta A plot of land, some recognition; the price was low: your resignation— a quid pro quo is not corruption! What profits us? That’s our best option.Comments closed
I’ve tried for years to write a perfect poem, an open window that lets in cool air— or a siren calling from the main road, reminding us to listen, reach and care. That might have worked before this darkness fell, but now, I fear, it may not be enough; we must throw back the curtains so the bright sky can cleanse this sickness, feed our strength and love.Comments closed
(i) You don’t know me, but in the summer of 2019, you met my friend— she couldn’t stop talking about you: a man who knew how to listen, a leader who spent more time working out of the spotlight than in it; a scholar who’d learned the art of switching autos mid-journey— They trail me everywhere, you told her, smiling, Why should I bring them to you? I was envious I hadn’t been there: for months, I kept hearing your name spoken alongside words like hero and hope. When they put you inside, those words were joined by rougher ones, but don’t worry; we have not forgotten. (ii) I thought of you yesterday morning as I passed by the PM’s residence on the way to CP. The wind was cool and smelled like a green living thing; the Delhi sky was more blue than gray, and clouds of bright yellow leaves rose from a sweeper’s broom. I thought: it’s springtime today, but how long will it last? My phone said Tihar Jail was just 12 kms away; at that moment I prayed that you were near an open window. (iii) Alone at night, or on Delhi’s borders we say your name when we pray or shout; we have not forgotten you or the others, we’ll welcome you all, when you come out. I wish we could talk, under a tree, I’d ask what you’d read, how did you cope? I’d buy you a cup of special hot tea, I’d ask what you think of heroes and hope.Comments closed
-for Shiv Kumar Hauling carts and vendors home, weary horses stop to drink from a bucket on the road at the edge of Saidulajab. They have no time to frisk or roam, just to quench and shake and blink, as they pull their heavy loads up the road by Saidulajab. What happens next, I do not know, except to say their clop and clink grows softer, softer, as they go southward from Saidulajab. There’s news of torture on my phone; some folks are treated worse, I think, than the beasts that pull and slow at the edge of Saidulajab.Comments closed
-after Kabir No matter how often you sweep, dust gathers under your bed, and the TV is loud and shrill; it sounds like thunder and rust— but outside, across the main road, someone has hung out bright clothes, and the tree on the left’s raining birdsong; from its roots rise the scent of spring flowers. They’re sowing division and fear to silence our songs and our prayers; but we’re only here for a moment— let’s sing of bright cloth and love.Comments closed
-85 years after Annihilation of Caste I dreamt that I saw my mother climbing a shaky steel ladder hung from a very tall tall building— I woke as she fell; I was screaming. I dreamt this because my mother is old and frail and falls, and I know the next time it happens I may not be there to catch her. I woke yesterday to read two girls had been murdered in Unnao, and one’s life hung by a thread— I wanted to scream when I read this. I won’t claim them as daughters or sisters, just friends, who I’ve never met, tied in that field and poisoned— it is time to wake up and scream.Comments closed
-for Nodeep Kaur and Disha Ravi You complain I’m too direct, that similes and slanted images can unfold truth more powerfully than the plain truth told plainly, and that there is wonder afoot even in this time of darkness and disease, but when police and paramilitary forces lob tear gas at farmers, it does not cover them like a winter fog, it covers them like tear gas, and when they jail young women for loudly demanding their wages or for quietly explaining how to speak loudly, they are not fencing in spring flowers, they are jailing young women who speak up bluntly. I am trying, my friend, to find subtle ways to sing in the dark. But remember, if it ever comes back to this: when blood runs in fields or streets it does not run like warm rain or a monsoon-fed drain, it runs like blood, and when that happens, subtlety is really just silence.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