The vultures are here
Look up look up
the vultures are here,
a people split in many
as they kill out of false fear.
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The vultures are here
Look up look up
the vultures are here,
a people split in many
as they kill out of false fear.
The mob
I am black
or I am white,
either the son of Jesus
or the son of Christ.
I am with Moses
or led by the Prophet,
else the god with the third eye,
I carry in my locket.
I am not one
but one of many,
this is not my soul
but the soul of any.
I am the sheep in the herd,
or the wolf in the pack;
even as I am hunted,
I cheer on the sack.
Once I was human
but I am my race now,
once I had a name
but I am my skin now.
Take pity on me,
I am no one;
see how strong I get,
when I am everyone.
I am with them
and they are so right,
changing lies to truth
through sheer might.
Alone
Those few words to you,
my lips could never utter;
Yet now I can’t stop talking to your shadow,
as I sit alone in this bustling cafe.
Distance
The little screen
at that I stare intent,
your face, your voice,
a little more distant
Shameless
I look away helpless,
as her screams pierce the night;
I look away shameless,
as the wrong was in the right.
Paper boat
That shiny new phone,
next year I would want one shinier;
Once every rain would bring out
the same old paper boat.
Missed call
Hours on the phone,
and I still don’t get you.
Yet once I could hear your story
from just a missed call.
Rebel
Remind me of the time
when revolution was served with tea;
For a sneaky spoon of sugar
is how I rebel now.
The right swipe
One body after another,
in their nakedness all the same;
I am looking for something else, I scream,
oh! They invented love, she whispers.
The Poor Rich
Often, on her way back home, she walked past that homeless man. Dressed in a pair of tattered jeans and a flimsy shirt, the man would try to catch her eye. And when he did, his lips would curl up in a sombre smile. It was not a lewd smile. It was not even one inviting her to come over and chat. Rather his smile was one of deep understanding; as if he knew how her boss had been a nuisance that day and how he believed that she never deserved the troubles she faced.
She had been taught as a child to not trust strangers. She had also learnt, from unsaid actions of her family and friends, to see thuggery in poverty. So she never returned that smile. No, she didn’t even return a casual nod. But she found the world a better place every evening when she saw that smile. She sensed empathy and she sensed acceptance.
This way it went on. For a month maybe or perhaps it was longer. In that instant when their eyes met, she poured all her stories into that glance. All her triumphs and all her troubles were shared. In his smile, she found an eager ear and a sympathetic word.
Then one day he was not there. She felt a little lost. She hurried away and just as she turned around the corner, he was there, looking at her with that same smile. He was standing there with two cups of coffee from the nearby café. She didn’t even realize when but she soon had one of those cups nestled in her hands, the hot coffee warming up her cold hands. By the time she sat down beside him on that slightly wet bench, she had stopped thinking. All that existed was that instant, the two of them, that bench and the coffee.
He started talking. He told her about the street. He spoke about the cold nights. And he told her about the warmth of the first rays of the morning sun. He pointed out the nice dogs. And he pointed out the nasty ones. He had a name for each one of them. He even had names for each of the trash cans on that street. And he told her in which ones he usually found fresh food. He narrated one incident where he did not get any food for two straight days. How it had rained heavily on those days and people generally were sparse. He had to seek cover in the bus stop. Finally, after two days the sun came out and people started coming back to the shops. A kind soul bought him a loaf of bread. He said that he could still feel the taste of that bread on his tongue. He kept on talking. And she kept listening. Even as his troubles assumed greater scale, hers started to fade away. Her boss no longer seemed a monster. That terrible coffee in her office suddenly became much better. Her boring work, that helped her keep a roof over her head, seemed bearable.
She smiled at him for the first time. Her eyes seemed to shine under the fading yellow evening sky. He stiff shoulders relaxed a little and her hands stopped clasping her bag so hard. Even as she sipped on that hot coffee, she became aware of how much this man had even while having nothing. That coffee money could have fed him two more meals. Instead here he was, smiling and talking his imminent hunger away. She held his hands and said her heartfelt thanks. He just smiled his same smile. As she stood up and walked away, the air seemed a little warmer and the people looked a little happier.
Why they did not fall in love...
It's been long. But the stories were held to ransom by what people commonly call a livelihood. I call it kidnapping. Nonetheless, here I am. And there is my story.
This one is about a girl. And about a boy. And also about how they never fell in love with each other.
Once there lived a girl in the fancy city of New York. And there lived this guy in Beijing. They never met. And they never ever fell in love with each other.
The End.
One history. Or the other.
It is hot in the classroom. The overhead fans cannot pierce through the thick summer air. The students stare at their teacher. She feels the heat too. But it is her job and she is proud to do what she does. Her job is to teach history to a bunch of teenagers.
She begins the class with a practised shout at the guys sitting at the back. It's a ritual. She is going to talk about the Second World War today.
As she begins, histories start to melt. Personalities start to merge. And different stories become one. She picks all that the present considers desirable and ascribes these qualities equally to all members of the good side. In this manner, all of the complex past becomes one single story of how a fearless people came together to defeat a bunch of cowards.
The students absorb these stories of heroes and villains. They love the way she narrates these tales from the past. And they dream of becoming such heroes. History has today created another bunch of people who will repeat history.
Another story.
This story is that of a boy. One who lives in the big apartment complex on the main street. He is very young, maybe just fourteen. And yet he is sad. You can tell from his smile. It has a quality of despair to it.
He rides his bicycle to school every day. The same route. It takes him by the old church and past the group of beggars living under the bridge. He never looks at them. They make him feel uneasy. He becomes painfully aware of the limitations of his own understanding.
He wants a new cycle this birthday. His father said he will get him a book. The beggars move around the cars waiting in traffic and ask for money. They get blank expressions and angry stares instead.
A constant cycle of desire is what life is. Our boy just fails to understand why.
The first story. Or maybe the last.
This story is that of a girl. A young one. She wants to see her lover. He stays in a town 8 hours away. So she travels. She does not have much money. So she travels by a bus. It is an overnight bus - the kind that stops in brightly lit restaurants where flies are buzzing at two in the night. She books her ticket and finds the only empty seat towards the back of the bus. She wants a window seat. But a man is already sitting there and staring out of the window. She decides to request him. He politely declines. He says he gets sick when traveling. She smiles, nods and sinks into her seat. The bus has a strange musty smell. As if it is ancient.
It is yet only 9 in the evening. The bus has been moving for almost twenty minutes now. The man by the window has kept looking out of the window. The girl has her eyes shut and is thinking of how she would hug her lover when she sees him. She feels a hand on her knee. She opens her eyes to find the man next her has put his hand on her knee and he is staring right at her with a smile on his face. She pushes him away. He puts his hand now on her thigh. She is rough when pushing away his hand this time. He grabs her arm, pulls her in and whispers in the darkness, “Do not fight and I will not hurt you.”
This is India. This is Pakistan. This is Australia. And this is France. The years are different. Yet, it is one story - a story of a girl who wants to travel. And a story of a girl who has to fight humiliation.
She still fights. And she will keep fighting. Till she wins. Because if she loses, the world ends. In her story, she fights for herself. But in my story, she fights for me and she fights for everyone. Today in India, yesterday in Pakistan. Someday in Australia and some other day in France.
Somewhere in the middle I begin
Where do I begin? And where will I end? So many stories I have heard. And so many more I have to tell. Each story a journey. Even before one ends, the next one begins. I can’t start at the beginning. I can’t even go on till the end. So I will jump right in the middle. And carry on till I can. Others will most certainly join me on the way. And carry on from where I leave.
So let’s begin. Somewhere in the middle.