Father warned me against writing political poems.
“Rather,” he said, looking out the window “Write about rains”
And I could see rains unable to wash away some stains
There are wailing walls, and wailing words
Like wails from the heart of Syria.
But, we force our minds to focus instead on the thin film of dust gathering on the TV screen,
still unable to shut the news.
Father picks up the paper instead, "Documenting is easy.
It always has been. Easy to write from a distance.”
I thought, however, “Who was left to document?
Lankesh’s smiling face on the first page, saying ‘Journalist shot dead’
Kalburgi shot at, straight into his head.
My father frowns at me,
“You do not understand.
Metaphors that begin with, for example, the sea".
He believes in the sea.
But stories only get preserved in the rocks and salt.
And I drink stories like I drink water
After 16 hours of fast on a harsh summer day.
I can lift my head up to drink
Even from a pair of parched lips
And, if politics in India flows like water, where in it is my fault?
My father shakes his head "Stories corrupt you, they scar you"
They have always left you bruised
And haven't those bruises brought us closer?
With each bruise you wiped with your antiseptic solution
Didn't you ask for the stories hidden in them?
"They will give you more of these" has always been his concluding remark
"India is best when we do not discuss the politics of it"
India, however was best known to my grandfather
It was the cataract living in his eyes.
He grew up in the village, learning the name of each root of the old banyan
He breathed in the rustic village air which carried the scent of peace
He could quote Ghalib in everyday conversations,
Yet conversed in fluent Angika with the old village herder
His erudite knowledge, simply a matter of humility.
That small world he was part of, and which was a part of him
Became the best version of India for him.
My uncle, today while returning from Grandpa's grave,
removed his skull cap before stepping out.
For he had seen a crimson stained cap,
lying among the debris on the train tracks.
And, a blood- soaked jigsaw moon appear on the sky,
pieced together by a thousand hollowed out bones.
I saw the sky too.
Already crowded by pieces of cartridges,
Shards of bombs and blood of many.
And I still tried to shut my mouth, but my tongue had no more room for the scars.
So, we roared.
This time, like the sea, the way my father wanted,
Like rain pouring out its pain.
The moon shivered as we rose, and the sky boomed with our political echoes
Iqra Raza
“Rather,” he said, looking out the window “Write about rains”
And I could see rains unable to wash away some stains
There are wailing walls, and wailing words
Like wails from the heart of Syria.
But, we force our minds to focus instead on the thin film of dust gathering on the TV screen,
still unable to shut the news.
Father picks up the paper instead, "Documenting is easy.
It always has been. Easy to write from a distance.”
I thought, however, “Who was left to document?
Lankesh’s smiling face on the first page, saying ‘Journalist shot dead’
Kalburgi shot at, straight into his head.
My father frowns at me,
“You do not understand.
Metaphors that begin with, for example, the sea".
He believes in the sea.
But stories only get preserved in the rocks and salt.
And I drink stories like I drink water
After 16 hours of fast on a harsh summer day.
I can lift my head up to drink
Even from a pair of parched lips
And, if politics in India flows like water, where in it is my fault?
My father shakes his head "Stories corrupt you, they scar you"
They have always left you bruised
And haven't those bruises brought us closer?
With each bruise you wiped with your antiseptic solution
Didn't you ask for the stories hidden in them?
"They will give you more of these" has always been his concluding remark
"India is best when we do not discuss the politics of it"
India, however was best known to my grandfather
It was the cataract living in his eyes.
He grew up in the village, learning the name of each root of the old banyan
He breathed in the rustic village air which carried the scent of peace
He could quote Ghalib in everyday conversations,
Yet conversed in fluent Angika with the old village herder
His erudite knowledge, simply a matter of humility.
That small world he was part of, and which was a part of him
Became the best version of India for him.
My uncle, today while returning from Grandpa's grave,
removed his skull cap before stepping out.
For he had seen a crimson stained cap,
lying among the debris on the train tracks.
And, a blood- soaked jigsaw moon appear on the sky,
pieced together by a thousand hollowed out bones.
I saw the sky too.
Already crowded by pieces of cartridges,
Shards of bombs and blood of many.
And I still tried to shut my mouth, but my tongue had no more room for the scars.
So, we roared.
This time, like the sea, the way my father wanted,
Like rain pouring out its pain.
The moon shivered as we rose, and the sky boomed with our political echoes
Iqra Raza
