By Shivani Mody
piss-sour yellow mats,
the image of a half-beaten, half-bent boxer,
his head in his hands.
rising in the air,
making ripples of Inquilab
in a closed confined space,
like water bubbling beyond its heights.
the water flooding streets of red,
diluted with claims of sab changa si
till it represents the saffron of your kamal.
saffron kamals and saffron dreams
stifling the air i breathe,
the words i speak
with thick agarbatti smoke.
smoke from the fire in our hearts
and the fire in the poetry
we tucked away in your mirrors.
look into the mirror,
do you see any humans?
The faithful bodies of my nation,
Bloodied and bruised,
The tender love of motherhood reduced,
Battered and broken,
The soft words of inquilab,
Misunderstood and misappropriated,
The kind hands that paint dissent,
Mutilated and maimed,
The night sky without the moon,
My country without my brothers.
She stands upright, with a spine she often hid behind loose fitting salwars, she looked straight at you, with piercing eyes that were too used to staring at the ground, and she talked to you with a strong voice that disguised the quiver it recognized as its own. She weaves stories, with the same ease of hands that have been pricked too often with a needle. She is not a stranger to pain and oppression; she is a stranger to resistance. She sings songs on the street by day and sings lullabies to her kids at night. The words remain the same.
Shivani Mody is a second year law student at OP Jindal Global University. Her interests are theatre, literature and poetry. Her writing is often inspired by political movements in India.
Cafe Dissensus Everyday is the blog of Cafe Dissensus magazine, based in New York City and India. All materials on the site are protected under Creative Commons License.
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