Che

Che stares back at me,
Through the reflection of the mirror.
The face strong,
The soulful eyes, intent,
Upon the future.
Che, just where are you?
In Bolivia?
In Mexico?
In Cuba?
In Nepal?
In India?
On your chest,
In your heart,
In your spirit,
In your dreams.
He answers back

-written on-
6/10/04
7.20 p.m

Water and a Tsunami

Like a giant falling,
The earth lost its step.
Ten meters down the ocean floor fell.
For thousands of kilometers a brutal jagged incision.
The earth revolted as if hit in the solar plexus,
Its three stories high waves, worse than killer whales.
From our shanties Oh Sea Goddess,
We worshipped you,
The matriarch you presided over our lives,
Like children we lived of your bounties.
Why then did you avenge against your own.
Those who pollute your womb with oil and tar,
You have not harmed.
Who, in distant lands, insatiably feast on your jeweled fish,
pearls and coral,
You have made wealthy.
Who channel their toxic effluents and plastic into your home,
You have shielded, by distance.
For, those who produce carbon dioxide and raise your temperature,
You have forgiven,
For those who plan development projects (of oil prospecting and ports)
Along your shore,
Their sins you have ignored,
For those who test their nuclear weapons in your atolls,
You have made powerful.
It was my low roof home you swept way.
My little wooden boat, bought on a loan.
My seven months old baby girl, whom I hoped would be a doctor.
It was my community of humble poor your smothered.
I see you colluded with the Elite Gods of the Earth,
Who have pushed us to the fringes of their existence,
To live on shifting sands,
So they may easily erase the dispensable me.
Oh Mother Sea,
Your even hand of justice I do not see.
-written on-

28th December '04

7.00 a.m

In a cast

I was tightly trapped in a gilded cast.
Suffocating, within its confines.
Submerged, deep in the dark sea.
Now the cast has cracked.
And I shake vigorously.
Knowing, it will come loose.
And I shall go
Up,
Kicking my feet gently,
Back and forth.
Up
Up
Up
Till I finally break the surface.
Looking into the blue of the unreachable sky,
I shall take in a
Long,
Deep,
Sweet
Breath of life.

-written on-
2.30 p.m
15/11/04

BLOOD STAINED CLAWS

My mind is like a huge canvas,
Ripped
And fluttering in the breeze.
How, can I mother a child.
And not pass on my inherent suspicion,
towards men.
How, can I trust the child I have mothered,
With her uncle, cousin or my friend.
I cower in the face of lust,
Streaked with strains of disrespect and hatred.
Strains that like dormant rabies,
To surface,
As irreversible action.
How, can I mother a child,
And she not feel this deep distrust.
This unease,
Towards a probable perverted mind,
Lurking in a smile,
In an ugly touch,
In an ugly thought.
How can I mother a child
And not want to protect her,
To shield her,
From a scheming distorted mind.
How can I mother a child,
With my overbearing fears, creeping into actions.
And still assure her a free, innocent life.
Seeing the silent anguish in my eyes,
How can she laugh with abandon,
How can she frolic with fun,
How can she grow and be a gift to heal.
I do not know.
And should a smelly, contorted face,
Say unheard words to her.
rough calloused fingers,
Mar her innocence,
With an ugly probe.
How then shall I respond.
Should I want to
Swipe him into oblivion,
I shall be stigmatized a murderer.
but that will hardly
return the cheerful giggle to my girls face.
It will hardly dim the memory
Of a betrayed trust.
How then should I respond.
I do not know.

-written on-
26th February '03
10.10. a.m

IFFI

Walking along newly cobbled,
Luxuriously broad sidewalks,
Lined with gardens and fairy lights,
The gentle lap of the Mandovi (river),
Interrupted, only by a tiny gush of sewage through a storm drain.
Three girls on a parapet,
Admiring the moon.
“Move off” this is a ‘no smoking’ zone, commanded the security,
threateningly waving his long wooden batten.
The streets, filled with the sounds of people,
Strolling by in masses.
Stopping to hear the Gazals and Hindi film music,
Admiring the props and the artificial Tulas,
Gazing at paintings in makeshift art galleries,
Buying Bacardi Breeze and
Hankering over the price of handicrafts.
Old arches, solid lime walls and worn out steps,
All painted and new. Yellow on yellow.
Orchids and glass fronts,
Film posters and neon lights,
The false voice of a singer and the fake twang of the MC.
A flashy red lancer displayed as a prize,
Chief Minister Parrikar discussing unimportant issues
And Francis D’Souza, unrecognized, unaccompanied,
Self consciously walks by.
On smooth floors, thro’ dark corridors
And chilly theaters,
After a hard days work,
I’m staring at the giant screen in front,
trying to make sense of ‘the missing’.
Acquaintances greet each other warmly,
Smart executives, traditional house wife’s, smart ass youth,
College kids, children on a leash, unknown directors and producers,
Rub shoulders.
“I wish I could be one of them, even for a day” says Shreta.
“you are one of them. Faceless in a crowd” I say.
Saris strung high,
Fly hither titter in the tangy breeze,
Thousands of people stomping on the beach,
A giant screen shows “Mission Impossible”
And no one cares to understand a word.
Vehicles zooming by,
unfamiliar faces poke out of car windows,
Kala Academy?
Miramar?
The place swarming with cops
And the CRPF with sten guns.
Chokker Bali, Vanity Fair and The Motorcycle Diaries,
All under one roof.
Lad-ies and gentle-men,
Put you-r hand-s to-gether and wel-c-o-m-e
The 35th International Film Festival Of India Goa 2-0-0-4
Being held from the 20th of November to 9th December.
Let your body swing to the vibrations of con-sume-rism,
Let your feet tap to the jingle of cap-ital-ism,
Fine tune your tastes to cultural imperialism,
And finally a big welcome to all of you, to the land of
Lulled social consciousness.

-written on-
3/12/04
6.55 a.m

I am a women and I am beginning to feel uneasy about it

I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
I hesitate to leave the office door unguarded when I’m alone,
Or keep the window open.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
I lock the door to my veranda,
Unsure about the boys next door.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
My mother worries herself when I’m late,
And badgers me to be home before dark.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
So I rush down for the 6.45 p.m bus home.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
I listen carefully when a man compliments about my looks,
Wondering if he’s being corny.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
I feel uneasy when strange me ogle at me on the street.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
Whenever I visit a public toilet,
there is a lurking fear of being attacked.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
Even though I am supposed to be 48% of the population.
I’m not as rare as a tiger,
That you can sell every part of me and make a killing.
I’m as common as a crow,
And commonality does not ensure security.
I am an object,
That can be sexually gratifying.
And a growing number of men, just cant keep their semen inside them.

-written on-
10/3/04

9.30 a.m

The Death Penalty

So just who are you Mr. Judge?
And just who are you Mr. President?
Who made you the Honorable Judge?
Who made you the Honorable President?
In My Democracy.
Was it my vote?!
So just how much did you know, 14 year old Hetal Parekh, Mr Judge?
(just so we know how much you felt for her)
And just how much did you know, Dhananjoy Chatterjee?
The same questions to you to Mr. President.
In what judgement did you sit Mr. Judge?
Was it legal, was it moral?
Of whom do you make an example off
and for whom?
Did you give life to Hetal Parekh, Mr. Judge?
Did you give life to Dhananjoy Chatterjee.
Maybe you did Mr. President?.
Did you?
What is ‘life’, to you Mr. Judge?
And when does it become precious, Mr. President?
Whom did you hang, when 15,310 people suffocated to death in Bhopal and 3,00,000 were maimed by Union Carbide?
How many people did you hang when the Children of Kumbakonam roasted in their school?
Where did you hang the officials, who rotted grain and caused starvation deaths in Orissa, Rajasthan, Maharashtra and in other states of India?
Why didn’t you hang the politicians of Andhra Pradesh and Maharashtra who’s ‘politics’ have caused scores of debt ridden farmers to kill themselves?
And whom do we hang for the destruction the nuclear tests have brought, on a poor tribal community in Rajasthan?
So just who are you Mr. Judge?
And just who are you Mr. President?
Who made you Judge?
Who made you President?
In my democracy.
Was it my vote?!

-written on-
14th September ‘04
10.45 a.m

The Fangs of Creativity

Creativity, pressed its two fangs,
Lightly upon my shoulders and pushed.
I did not move.
The fangs threatened to pierce,
And it pushed a little harder.
I did not move.
The pressure on my shoulders grew
A little harder
And my mind shook.
More pressure,
Strong and steady
My confidence shook.
The fangs pierced the first thin layer of skin
And the push grew harder,
My body swayed,
First by a millimeter, then by an inch,
And my step fell, backwards,
Harder and harder it pushed,
Step by step, backwards I went.
Until I felt the smooth, unyielding wall behind me.
Move, it commanded,
With a growl that resonated from deep within its diaphragm.

-written on-
1/12/04
8.45 p.m

Shift the ‘Centre’ of the terms of discourse East

Where would I be without the Portuguese?
And where would you be without the British?

Yes, what about Imperialism and Colonialism?

Aren’t those the words and concepts foisted on us?,
By the Imperialists and Colonialists themselves.

Where would you be without their definitions?

-written on
6th September '04
8.30 p.m

The children of Kumbakonam

Thousands of children die per day in this country from mal-nutrition
and preventable diseases,
so why do you cry for me?
We were just 90 among the billion,
You could (easily) have 90 more,
why do you cry for me?
Lakhs of children like me roam the streets, collecting garbage,
Getting whipped and brutalized by the police and strangers,
So why do you cry for me?
Multitudes of children like me,
Work in brick kilns, making carpet, weaving, making bangle,
and the fire cracker industry.
Die maimed, a shortened life and a painful death,
So why do you cry for me?
Lahks of children before me and countless after me,
will have their dreams and hopes and emotions, trampled and charred,
Like our bodies in Kumbakonam,
So why only do you cry for me?
Don’t make an exhibition of me.
I don’t want Mrs Sonia Gandhi sanctioning one crore for our families,
I don’t want Tamil Nadu to order all schools to change their thatched roofs,
excuses, to sanction money that never reaches the poor like me,
excuses to buy the pain in my mothers breast, she cant produce another me.
I don’t understand this country,
That cares not for its little people,
Who will siphon money meant for the education and health of their young citizens?
Who will inject fake medicines and choke them to death,
Who will sit in their AC rooms, not breath the air I breathe, not hear the cries I hear, not eat the worms I eat, and nonchalantly plan my future?
I don’t think I want to be born in this country again.

-written on-
21st July 04
9.53 a.m

Awaiting doom

The sun sets and I shiver,
The nocturnal beasts of life,
Come alive.
Take deep breaths, puffing out their chests.
Ready to work.

The strength drains out of my limbs.
A drooping plant in the sweltering heat of summer,
limp,
Waiting for the propagator of doom to descend
upon me,
One more conquered.


4th May 1999

Women

Women
Half the population,
Whose soul is buried in delicate limbs and soft lush hair.
She is the beautiful creature,
Tamed, around the same time as the dog,
The milch cow,
To every society,
The shadow in every home,
The ghost, in every mans life.

24th April 1999