Poetry

The Colours of Deaths

Even death is not democratic. Some deaths are celebrated, and many deaths are denied. Some deaths make headlines, many go unseen.

I walk to the cropping field every day
Its grasses, creepers, crops, and clay-land are my dear ones.
It smells fragrant in my breathing,

Moulana goes to Gaza, Moulana goes to Kashmir, UP...
He, however, does not know that his
People are mostly migrant labours,
Ill-clothed, ill-fed,

It asserts the power of women. They can be abused, raped, or murdered, but they have the power to steal the dreams of their killers.

In this rape nation
a raped girl is raped thrice
once in the seminar hall
once on the TV debates
and once again in the narratives
of the learned men!

My eternal mind is pining in thirst

For the ambrosia of a hymn.

Set me free,
And let me be...
An uncaged bird
With dreams unfettered.

At which edge thou shall put me on ?
Put up thou (as you like ) -
I do wander around at the border
That's devoid of any road

A rogue truck, unloading its gold,
Has dashed against a leaning wall,
And under its debris the mother
Has got a clean burial.

It attests to the condition of the labourers who wait at city's corners to seek a hand that may hire them for the day.