Five Poems
By Harnidh Kaur
Kashmir
I fed you bullets,
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,
for sixty seven years, every day,
slipped into the buns you bought
from the nanwai, dissolved into
the noon chai you drank (didn’t
you see hints of metal sheen in
that pale pink?), chopped into
the haak you ate on days your
body and heart ached, crumbled
onto the gushtabah you made
with secrets folded into the
meat, sometimes I pushed them
into your mouth whole, clamping
down your jaw as you choked.
And when you spat them back
at me, I shot you down, spittle
dribbling mouth still frothing.
***
Do not slip through the cracks
do not find your toes stuck in
the sidewalk as you pitch ahead,
body dropping forward like a
drunken flower, do not wiggle
them till you are thrust deeper,
stand still, hands up, palms
down, don’t twitch (no, the pain
does not make for escape), no
you cannot tremble for help, no
you may not make a noise, you
are not being dragged in inch
by gruesome inch, do not warn
others away, do not ask if you
matter – we promise you do, just
as much as everyone else does,
just not as much as we do – do
not scream defiance, do not lay
claim to the profits reaped off
the cornrows on your scalp, do
not demand justifications, we
have none to find and spare.
Do not slip through the cracks
we will not try to save you today.
***
Baghdad
My hands blasted off my wrists
they left jagged, torn edges with
blood dripping down to my elbows
and pooling into the creases of my
skin, splattering my face, sprinkling
cloth with a confetti of pulped flesh,
I had to crawl to the ground and
drag myself till I could feel fingers
again, reattached, I chased my other
hand, grabbing my own palm till
it slipped back on, it took three tries,
slick, sudden, sodden and broken,
my thumbs went on wrong, my hands
became an afterthought, it took twice
as much focus to bring them to the
list of names flashing before my eyes,
I left crimson streaks across the screen
grisly, appropriate highlights,
no name called out to me, and i sobbed
asking for anchoring, this grief was
not mine, but I felt it, wracking against
my ribs till my chest throbbed with the
ache of my hands- ill fitted pain for
ill fitted limbs, odds and ends turned
away from norm, I stood, patchwork
of guilt, appropriator of anger, stealer
of screams, swallower of the words
masked by rationalisations, theories,
primetime shows, uncertain policies –
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
***
Frequency
The government couldn’t afford names
anymore, names gave away everything it
was trying to retain – casteclasscolour
had to disappear, only virtues could
remain – humanity had to find itself, and
names just blocked the noble way.
Our identity cards were taken away, each
vowel pulled out like rotten teeth till
our bones rang hollow, clanging against
each other without the weight of history
grounding them into place – we floated,
freely, empty skies on a summer day.
You didn’t know my name anymore, and
I didn’t know the sounds you’d respond
to, so I started calling out to you in little
chirps and mewling gasps, murmured
songs, and lilting chirrs, gentle echoes,
all reflections of the spring in in May.
The government urged us to use sounds
instead of words, you wanted to call me
‘valor’, but were stuck with the harsh
howl of the winds, the scream of glaciers
collapsing into themselves, the dying
dirge of the year, the anger of winter sprays.
But winter lasts just three months, and
ebbs and flows to the call of spring, without
names, we were just reverberations, ours
didn’t surf the same wavelengths, the winter
winds will rattle my glass walls, but the smell
of spring will always waft in my veins.
***
Eklavya,
I wish you were here to see
wars fought with nine fingers
attacking a keyboard with ideas.
I wish you were here to see
knowledge gained despite, not
because of permissions.
I wish you were here to see
the reclamation of a thousand
years, generation by generation.
I wish you were here to see
us telling your stories, with
the Mahabharata as an addendum.
I wish we were there to see
you rub your thumb stump
and smile, in quiet vindication.
Photo-credit: Firstpost
Bio:
Harnidh Kaur is currently pursuing her Masters in Public Policy from St. Xavier’s, Mumbai. Her first collection, The Inability of Words, is now available. She can be contacted via email (harnidh95@gmail.com). Her second collection of poetry is underway.
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One Response to “Five Poems”
The poems are powerful, thought provoking and reflects on the dark realities of lesser humans, treated by authorities. Such a sad state.