For once
let me out where eyes greet me in the face
and not pry along my breasts
or stare as I bend, between my legs.
let me out to play in the dirt
let me shout to cry and agitate
let me love another girl
no i do not love knitting
no i do not love cooking
no i do not want you proposing on one knee
and Yes i mean NO when i say No
Just once
let me be,
no one’s mother
no one’s sister
no one’s wife
no one’s daughter
keep your business in your trouser pockets
next to that which falsely gives you power over me.
***
Preparing for Death*
The white gleaming walls,
The bright red house
Decked for a wedding
Looked off putting
Against the sombre tone of death
However does one prepare for death?
The festoons have lost their colour
And swing lay tossed in a corner
However does one prepare for death?
The same mandap made itself up
The stairs now seated people for meet and grieve
However does one prepare for death?
The flex had to be remade
The flowers were ordered back again
Death is no hacking away of life
Death is a transition, an event
This was no death
This was anger on life
An uprooting of life
A bullet could have also caused death
But a sickle made sure the incident
wasn’t sly, wasn’t quiet, wasn’t respectful
A sickle bellowed ‘How dare you live!’
This is no death
This is the hacking away of life
And the hacking away
Calls for no preparation
No settlement
But an abyss of uncharred anger
Of a quest for respect, for dignity for life!
***
Who do we Sacrifice now?+
I always thought, prophecies
Were a thing of the past
That, tales of blind-eyed men
Tongue tied women, wouldn’t last
But
Now as I cruise, through
Bloodless promises and
naked pathed mass migrations,
stirred by a mindless virus
along the rust
it makes me wonder
who do we sacrifice now?
Life for life
Sacrifice for a new beginning
has always been key to the new world
For new roads, new flyovers and newer cities
A virgin maiden, not over 12, would do
For a year of good over evil
A plump asura would do
Now we are here
Looking past scorched streets that smell of skin
Past ghosts
wisp through the ac vents
Sneak up on me, on the sofa
and murmur distinctly
Who will you sacrifice now?
To save
Your annual reserve of muscle, sweat and blood?
Is there a way through to save them?
Is there a way through to feed them, to clothe them?
And make us human again
As they simmer and perish away
On our watch
Or may be I
I got this wrong again
In times of
Apocalypse now
When invisible microbes eat away at us
In our lavish palaces and pent houses
A handful of virgins & asuras
Will not and cannot do
All 420 million have to
burn
to simmer on asphalt coals
to roast till the skin falls
off the muscle
and the muscle cooks to
come off the bone
all down to the marrow
that melt
to make the elixir broth
only then can the handful of us survive
when all 420 million have perished
with their eyes still open
fixed at the sight of their home
that does not exist
and perished long before they started
*The poem was written after 26-year-old Pranay was hacked to death by a sickle by the goons employed by his father-in-law. At the time, he was with his pregnant wife, returning from her prenatal check-up. The incident happened only after months of their wedding. The house was still gleaming with the paint that had been applied for the wedding, and the festoons were still up. In a few months, the house was crowded with well-wishers mourning the death of a young soul. Institutional murders, such as Pranay’s are naturalised in the name of killing for and preserving honour. They are not seen for what they actually are: murders committed to preserving the caste hierarchy and the arrogance of the upper castes.
+ In response to the mass migrations of labourers during the Covid 19 pandemic.
The poem is astonishing