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 closedPoems about the dark times.
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 closedwhen 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…
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…
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…
Comments closedAt 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…
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…
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…
Comments closedWe’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…
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…
Comments closedAfter 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…
Comments closedI 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…
Comments closedWho 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…
Comments closedLast 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…
Comments closedOnce 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…
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…
Comments closedArmed 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…
Comments closedFrom 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…
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