Vibe

 

You come back and come back and every time

you plaster yourself flat to the doors and walls,

you snatch at the silver threads of tramlines,

you clutch  at the bricks and stones, the road signs,

but you’re still separate, not part of the whole

and they say that you haven’t come back at all.

 

Half the people are gone, there’s a new tenant.

The kerb’s a strange colour, the lamp post’s three pronged,

there’s a swank new park and a waterfront.

Gone too is the ice cream shop – your childhood haunt.

All the places where you seamlessly belonged.

Everything’s changed. And everyone feels wronged.

Well, it's not rocket science - every time someone leaves his hometown for any substantial span of time, both the home and the town, the people who stay, the person leaving - all change irrevocably, there's no coming back. Not to the people, not to the spaces. And the one who leaves is not the same person who returns. The whole thing is an exercise in expectation management. 

But the transition shouldn't be this hard. Kolkata is still reeling from the murder/rape of the young doctor last month. There are on going protests, the involvement of the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI) to investigate the case ordered by the Calcutta High Court as there were trust issues with the Kolkata Police, there are allegations of evidence tampering against the police and the suspicion that they were shielding the master mind. There are calls for the resignation of the Police Commissioner and the Chief Minister. The Supreme Court of India has taken suo moto cognisance and hearings of that are also on going. The opposition parties are making hay the most of it while the clouds are thick, ordinary citizens are outraged, upset and quite beside themselves. There have been protests for justice across the country and also across the world in solidarity.  India has its own equivalent of the George Floyd situation. 

Bengal used to be a liberal, progressive state, Kolkata has been voted the safest city for women for three years running, it is beyond shocking how we have come to a situation where a woman is raped and murdered in her own workplace and then there are attempts at a cover up. 

It is a living nightmare. It is also an inspiration - the way the junior doctors' front has handled their demands for justice in peaceful and dignified protests. A moment of hope too - an opportunity. To reassess our justice systems, to reassess our own selves and attitudes towards women. I for one am awash with questions. Why do Indians condone everyday misogyny in words and deeds and erupt into worldwide protests only at rape and extreme violence? Why do we turn a blind eye to the rapes/murder of women from the marginalised sections of society and take to the streets demanding justice only for middle class/upper class/educated/urban women? Why is there only episodic outrage and condemnation? 

Thank you for reading. 

When will you be home?

 

You haven’t come home, the street’s got emptier.

A car whooshes past, an ambulance somewhere

pierces the dark. The clouds overhead clear

but the remnants of rain still drip on the stairs.

I’m on the balcony. I’m on the phone.

Where are you my girl, in this night alone?

 

I’ve taught you a few things early, much before

I’d wanted to. Hands, touch, violence, abuse.

Bliss was not an option. Every day’s a war –

girls have to grow up fast. We cannot choose.

I’m at the doorway. And still on the phone.

Where are you sweetie, in this wide danger zone?   

 

I’ve taught you to dream. But I’ve been circumspect.

Only hoped that you’d be safe on the streets,

that you’d be given some basic respect.

We dream small, where red lines and limits meet.

I’m out on the lane. Please pick up your phone!

Where are you, daughter and when will you be home?

News of the Kolkata rape and murder of a post grad trainee doctor on 9th August has been reported in the international media,  you might have seen it and therefore can surmise the reason for the poem above. 

Widespread protests have erupted across India this time, people are marching in their thousands calling for justice for the doctor and for women's safety. It's distressing, outrageous, preposterous that women face this level of violence but it's also heartening to see the solidarity. I'm hopeful still. 

Kolkata used to be a safe city for women, it's still regularly voted as the safest in India. However, the sad truth is that India has become progressively unsafe for women over the last 20 years. The reasons are many layered and complex, but what is not in question is that we require a seismic societal shift if things are to change. Making the laws more stringent can only achieve results if they are implemented rigorously, that is where the system is failing. And it is failing deliberately - because there is political patronage of criminals, an enabling of violence against women across the board and across party lines. That needs to stop immediately if the rape culture is to change. 

Hoping for that change soon, for speedy justice for every case of abuse/rape and in the R.G. Kar Hospital case in particular.   

Wishing all women a crime free, disrespect free and stress free environment at every corner of world. May we get to see the dream of an equal and just world realised in our lifetime. Thank you for reading.

Draupadi now

  

Anguish burning behind skins

like flames behind colours of

see-through stone. Burning love,

exploding sparks of bush fires in

forlorn grasslands. Proud edifices of travertine

laid to desolate waste, utter ruin,

stripped to nakedness, still

dignified, untouched, tranquil.

They can set the spark

to burn my anguish, work

at trafficking every body part

fine tune rape into a performing art

strip me of every love, and each caress

they will not be able to undress

either my bodies or my souls. 

I spin my own yards of fabric rolls -

sheer, translucent pleasure, and thick pile wool

blankets of independence, shaded tulle

in colours both frivolous and grave

hopeful and despairing, timid and brave.

Every thread a fine point weapon.

They can’t have me bared, or broken.

Rage burning in leaping tongues

of a saffron flameball.  Like the young

sun shrugs off the restraining horizon,

somersaults into a wide blue freedom.

The slow burning of trust

quietly guarded small flames suddenly crushed

between callous fingers, wicks nipped

stand wisping smoke, still red tipped.

They can use their fingers, steel-cold, cruel

to nip my wicks, siphon away every fuel

that I have for happiness, pinch

off every source of joy, lay bare every inch

of flesh and bone, claw and snatch

at every covering. Still I’ll detach

from their grasp, no hand hold,

no firm grip on my bodies or souls.

I spin my own endless fabrics

in colours of alabaster and marble, jade and onyx.

In textures of silk and steel, of resolve and grief,

weaves of milky mercy, intricate loving motifs.

I spin my own immeasurable veil

the borders dark, the rest shimmering pale,

confident and free, the way it drapes

around my core and around its outer shapes.

I don’t wait for saviours, I call upon no prophets.

I am clothed in my own humanity, I cannot be stripped.

Draupadi is a character in the Indian epic Mahabharata, her husbands' enemies' attempt to publicly disrobe her is foiled by Krishna who answers her call for help. He makes her garment endless, and her attacker tires of trying to pull it off her.  This event is one of the triggers leading into the climax of the Kurukshetra war.

Fields

War is not the only arena where peace is done to death ~ Aung San Suu Kyi, at her Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech

It’s true that war isn’t the only battlefield

where peace is stabbed to death, shred

into pieces by missiles, it’s also peeled

off by gentle hands and torn stone dead

every day in closed cells and sealed

yards, small rooms and the sweep of widespread

placid nods of automated heads.

 

 

And prisons too come in myriad forms

tightly curled buds, cells, walls, snug cocoons.

All life must constantly escape its homes

constantly force open the petals of fortunes

and sail on unknown winds, transform

painfully, trim, hack and prune

and all the same, die all too soon.

There is the life of prisons far away
and there’s life on a different plane
but violence filed in both their dossiers
repeated exercises of mechanical pain
hope and faith are so easy to mislay
when peace is shelled and shot again and again
in all-pervasive, relentless campaigns.

There are deaths on battlefields, and foetuses

strangled in wombs and quickly disposed
or else unborn still, taught clever bypasses
to adult war formations that closed
about warriors aeons ago. We repeat all the losses,
no lessons are learnt, no hostilities paused
only time and technicalities transposed.