Monthly Archives: August 2013

My Mumbai Colleague

My Mumbai Colleague

Like you,

I am a journalist

 

Like you,

I visit many places

For work

 

Some lonely

Some crowded

Some in the evening

 

Like you

I was an intern

When I was 22

 

Tasting the new success

After a college education

Exploring my world

 

Like you

I was a professional

Doing my job

 

Like you

If my assignment was in the mills

I would have gone

 

Like you

I would have never thought

I would be violated on my job

 

Fight, my sister

Be brave

For all of us

 

Don’t listen to anyone

Who says

That you were

 

In the wrong place

At the wrong time

Or in the wrong clothes

 

It wasn’t you

My Mumbai colleague

It’s them

 

They were in the wrong place

At the wrong time

With the wrong intentions

 

It’s not your shame

It’s not your izzat

It’s not your family’s honour

 

That they took

Who hunted

In a pack

 

It’s their’s

They should be ashamed

Of being worse than animals

 

They assumed

That they were

Powerful

 

But they are wrong

You are a woman

Shakti Chandi Durga

 

Rise, my sister

In your fight

I hold your hand

 

Like the girl on

December 16

Jolt us out

 

Of apathy

Of desensitization

Of nothing-can’t-be-done attitude

 

Fight the fight

For all of us

My Mumbai Colleague

 

Work

Laugh

Live

 

Live

My Mumbai Colleague

So they know

 

They don’t have

Any power

Over you

 

Live

Because it’s your life

To live

—–

Poetry written for this fellow journalist

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Filed under India, Poetry

Death

Death is black

It is quick

It is slow

 

What does it taste like?

It’s like the salty tears

Which never stop flowing

 

It tastes like black soyabean

Which hungry children

Once ate

 

It’s in the mud

Which covers the graves

Of small bodies

 

It’s in the guttural cries

Of a wailing mother

And a stoic father

 

It smells like school books

Whose pages haven’t been turned

New, unused forever

 

It’s in an empty classroom

Where human life ceases to exist

And stray dogs sleep

 

It’s in a village

Which mourns the loss

Of its future

 

It’s in the empty playground

Where six friends once played

Now buried together

 

It’s in the eyes of a grandfather

It’s in the heart of a mother

And in the silence of a sister who cheated it

 

It’s in the green fields

And blue skies

And a pond which reflects everything

 

It’s in the apathy

And desensitization

Of the hordes who die, anyway

 

And the – oh, those poor children

So sad they died

It was somewhere in India, right?

 

———-

One month after the Mid Day Meal tragedy where 23 children died.

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Filed under India, Poetry