From the Editors:
Is this the India we want?
A country in which citizens are murdered or attacked for being rational; for being critical, for raising a voice of dissent; for just being themselves, Muslim or Dalit or women. Intimidation, threats. Hatred. Lynching. Sickening violence. Students and teachers given the choice between being leashed in thought and word, or being hounded as seditious. Institutions built over the years weakened. The economy and development turned into exercises that mock the needs and aspirations of most people. The secularism, the scientific temper and the rights promised in our Constitution subverted every day. Our democracy, our India, frayed.
But this is our country. It belongs to us, and we belong to it. We have each other for support. We have our poems and songs and films and essays and fiction and art. Our diverse voices.
What is the India we want?
Listen to our fellow citizens speak of the country they don’t want and the India they want on the series India 2019 on the Indian Cultural Forum and Guftugu.
Image Courtesy: Max Pixel | Painting Oil Texture Artistic Grunge Dirt
State of War: Four Poems
I
Hear hear
Election is near
Call to arms
Armed one
Armed all
The enemy is here
Quench your blood thirst
Nothing is a mystery
For those who see
This is not a prophesy
From the Indus on
The enemy should recede
It is easy you see
Burn a train, plant a bomb
Call it development
And we will be blinded
By dreams of blood drenched gold
But it is only a dream, the gold
But it is only an excuse, the blood
Plant a rumour
Let it sprout
The enemy is beloved
of your daughter
Love jihad
Jihad the jihadi then
Parade, Lynch,
Naked, Parade, Lynch
Yes, now everyone is cleansed
Plant a rumour
Let it sprout
into unreadable books
Raid bookshelves,
Parade the reader
The republic drowns
in riots called
the development model
Summer is freezing
In silences of history
In shrieks of the present
II
In times of war
think of contagion.
Violence is contagious
it ruptures through
quite as heartbreak
but not of a kind
you’ve had before.
It empties words of meanings;
It empties conversation of words.
Sometimes a gaze is blank –
it is cataract,
it is memory hazed by present
The clock falls, shatters time
because pain will be
the cyclical pattern of audio recorders
thrust on you, sound-bites of war;
aid for recovery. A bomb splinters,
the sun disappears. On blackout nights,
the siren sings as birds.
No, no longer war amputates you.
It infuses within; a slow drug
releases itself in your blood.
You think you are defiant,
but you reflect them.
See, I was warning you
about contagion.
III
In this war
and non-war
and the not knowing
if we are at war
or non war
Is this the funeral
of a martyr
or a fugitive
or both?
Always both.
Is there
in this war
a Good Lord
eyeless above
Or is S/he there
only in us?
In this war
and non war
and not knowing
if we are at war
or non-war
How do we know
if we are inhaling defeat
Or exuding victory
IV
The screen is primitive, savage and 24/7.
The reportage shames itself,
only shame does not exist,
except when summoned to tie around a woman’s neck.
Myopia is a rampant affliction.
The radicals throw their wholesome abuses to all
but worry about a cut in their share.
The needle points to every direction, including you
(and let me not congratulate myself) and me.
The concluding day of the conference on AFSPA
Booze flows freely
from the army canteen
so, over dinner the nuances of the argument is further elaborated.
There is hope that
in the season of mangoes
the parrots will be done parroting memorised lines
This is no poem of apocalypse.
This is merely reportage.
Dystopia or Achhe Din: Four Poems
I
A meat for a meat
That is the new law
A meat for a meat
A slaughter for a slaughter
That is the new law
Ram’s rajya is dystopia
Sita’s blood is the colour of earth
Ram’s rajya is dystopia
Mohammad’s blood is the colour of meat
Ram conjures up the menu
Ravan weeps: all ten heads
wishes he guarded Sita better
Averted her ignominy
Now, not even Gujarat’s vegetarian earth
Swallows her whole
Come to Lanka, Sita
Ravan will ask the ocean
to
Swallow you whole
Have your death of the ocean
It is your ancestral fault
Your collective ancestral fault
to have chosen such a king
March towards the ocean
Part the waters
if you can
or walk into it
Ram’s rajya is dystopia
What consummates his appetite?
Meat cooked by torching of houses?
Ravan, the ten headed demon king
weeps with all ten heads
Nowadays
Everything gets called a revolution
But never before
a king’s deed
was called a revolution
II
In the absence of a corpse
So, what should we do in the absence of a corpse?
I heard he died in training
In Bangladesh or Burma
What day do we choose for the Shradh?
Is this better than the stench ridden corpse?
The son of the neighbour next door
Reclaimed three days late
Death degrading itself into stench
The mother says “He isn’t dead
I haven’t seen his ghost yet
You see, there are no walls, to contain death
They have to come back”
In the absence of the corpse
How do we convince her,
she isn’t a half widow
but a full widow
And you thought half and full
is only the proverbial water in the glass tumbler
In the absence of the corpse
Can’t we just get another?
Give it her name and set it ablaze
in her name
Many do come back after the cremation
Not as spectacular as second coming
But no less a miracle
They come back, sometimes to grief
sometimes to happiness
sometimes to indifference –which is worse than either
You see, sometimes in the absence of a corpse
We are given to too much hope
III
You are common
Your body is common
You are as common as a corpse
We will turn
your body into a corpse
Money is paper
crisp but common
One common object
can be exchanged for another
Your nakedness is common
can be exchanged for another
We will parade you
one common naked body
followed by another
Naked bodies with orifices
We will put common objects
into common orifices
A stone, A twig
A stick, A baton
A muzzle
Common objects
of our times
IV
promises and promises
give it a miss
it is unsure
why
you promised me the moon
and doted on my nails
the black stain of your promises
I live with the regret
yet another five years
Optimist that I am
you will find me yet again
lining up in the queue
amonsgt stones and dust
of the rumbling school
roofless from your promises
waiting for the stain
secretly folding your promises
sliding it down
the box of dreams of democracy
locked securely for another five years
is lies and lies and lies
Yet I believed
like a love struck luckless lover
I wish I had chosen
another polish for my nails
Read more:
India 2019: The Great Leader’s Shadow
India 2019: A Self-Reliant Nation
India 2019: दूसरा बटवारा
