Monday, January 17, 2011

Peace Ho!

('Do they still talk about AK 47s and
grenades in this age of cyberbullying?',
Exclaims a student of mine)

Soon there will be a
meeting calling for peace,
both parties will shake hands
over tea and exchange notes,
how many killed,
how many raped and molested,
how many homeless,
cattleless and penniless,
how many limbs severed
how many homes torched
shall all be discussed by
the Joint Peace Committee,

With the glint of power
steeled in their dentures
they will also count on the
blessings of those unhurt,
they will also assess the
material losses,
then take count of
people missing, in both
the borders, how many Rabhas,
how many Garos, How many
Ibos how many Hausas?
how  many killed
how many detained,
the meeting will go for
hours, first over tea and biscuits
then overnight with more
intimate morsels.

Next day, they will say
'Let there will be peace'
and there will be peace.
Their glint intact
they wrap up their hoardings
till the next strife
darkens the skies
of my once peaceful homeland!

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

The hills turn red once again

For my foster homeland, the Garo hills in Meghalaya, yet again torn by an ethnic violence between the Garos and Rabhas.
For the homeless thousands who provided me a home and happiness when I was miles away from home
For the displaced, torn, raped and mutilated, you dont figure in our news anyway!! You are not sensational
For my friends in the Garo Hills, who live with the flicker of fear in their eyes fanned alive by continuing violence....

Its not just yesterday
But I dream of my blue hills
They are turning red
as the world turns
its eyes away.

With the machete and guns
They don’t ask
“Brother,  isn’t this red
The colour of my blood too?”
Or before tearing
Her honour away
Will he say
“Excuse me sister
This monster’s hate is
Nothing but lust
coiled in my loins when
We were neighbours”
When the child cries
Swaddled the cradle,
The  chop in the backyard
Is not his father’s axe
splitting firewood for
A  peaceful day,
Its not his mother's mortar
and pestle that grind
in the backyard now,
Or the muffled moans
Aren't his parents’
Love translated to a song.
They stop his crying too.

Here, the hills change colour
As the day walks through a field,
Scattered by homeless beasts,
Of  pale green to emerald blues
To hazy yellows to
Blood red sun sets,
There’s no one to stop
The hate, guns and bloodied
Machetes flung all over the way,
Different hues of hate
Slowly spreads  its
silken petals over the hills.

You and I , do not
halt and say
“Brother, our blood is red too, it
Smells  of tears and rust , it clots,
Then dries up to a coffee
brown, before death decays all…”

Monday, January 03, 2011

Nestling in December

Du bist mein, ich bin dein.
Des sollst du gewiss sein.
Du bist beschlossen
in meinem Herzen;
Verloren ist das Schl├╝sselein.
                                            Du musst immer drinne sein.

December must be empty and cold,
the fag-end of seasons,
Trapped in your chest
I flap my wings to fly.
They resonate
your heart beats.

I can feel the sense of
flight from here
I feel the silk of horizons
with my eyes.
From here, I feel
free birds cruising the skies,
lonely and precarious,
settling scores with nature.
I like being caged in yourself
I tell myself

I see the birds soar
from limited  iron bars,
from here I can watch the
sparse December sky,
ashen and grey.
Homeless birds
flapping their wings
in an alien sky.
Their nascent confusion


Blog Archive