Body-Nation

The country of my body has passed a farmaan,
signed by the head, thumb forced to attest,
two eyes as witnesses – I no longer belong here.

My ears have no patience for my language,
my tongue repeats the same silent songs, caught 
between rage and heartbreak – it is unbearably dry.

My hands have decided.  They will not offer 
a single drop of water, poison, or prayer.

I’ve now come to know, for sure, that tongue
holds on to the abandoned most dearly,
that taste is the last sense you lose.

Once while kissing the earth in prayer, I had erred 
and stuck my tongue out.  Today, I’ll do as ordered. 

Here – I am giving up 
the thick taste of soil, my final memory.
Here – I am bidding my body goodbye.
Here – I am kissing it one last time.

My lips are so cold, that this ample nation
once mine, now yours, catches fire in shock.
I’ll see from a distance, with cold nerves
flesh returning to ashes.

***

This is a Photograph

This is a photograph of me
and my mother.

We are repeating an old pose
from twenty five years ago –
my father in his mother’s arms.

This picture was taken on 6 December, 1992.

I turned six months – as per ritual
was fed the first morsel of solid food;
Babri Masjid was attacked and razed to ground.

My family got dressed and gathered
to get photographs clicked.
We grinned at the flash of future
in different permutations.

A young mother and a blank old child,
looking into the camera of one-eyed history –
my dome like skull looks so smooth,
unbroken and intact.

***

Days to Dust 

The earth keeps coughing for days.
Homes return to particles. 
There is always a fountain 
of school-chalkdust and some fingers 
that take forever to still.

In dismembered kitchens, teeth lie 
in wait for their final bite.
Shards of paper confetti 
their way  into the square ditch, 
shrouding the dead statue – After an explosion,

it takes time for days to dust.

We were asked to walk
over the rubble and scour
out leftover lives, or any trace 
of voice – We had to cover
our eyes and stick our brains
to the soles of our shoes.

Every second hour, we snapped 
our fingers close to our ears.

On the seventh day – I found a trail
of books stacked like half-eaten steps,
an invisible gate to a shapeless library.

Open spines, words, some pictures,
a clock without ears, a request to MAINTAIN 
SILENCE.

Sun was setting, sands were cooling down, 
my battalion had moved on.”

— So what did you do?

Like an empty nation, I stood there for a while. 
When the moon came, I took off my shoes,
I sat down to read.

***