Living In a Torturous World Where Being Hindu Becomes a Sin And Violent Ruin of Homes and Dreams the New Normal
The poem weeps where words cannot, as a Hindu soul mourns shattered nests and silent cries, grieving the unending violence against Hindus in Bangladesh.
Since 6th August many birds have
become scavengers. Taking up the
skies, they want all the trees, worms,
fruits, and nests. The death-cries once
heard, keep plodding my almosts. In
suddenness topsy-turvy their routines.
Their plundered nests caressing the
heartful moans. Now the victim birds
search for refuge behind the un-saffroned
corners. Lest if someone knows how safe.
When does the divine victual begins to
ferment toxins…
On the hammock of emotions I see my
silence evolve bloody streaks upon golden.
History says, true potential of words are
tested upon the knife’s blind violence.
Opening my flesh and cabbage with the
same shrewd urge. I want this poem to
do what the knife does…
How is every life’s problem somehow
knitted to mine: From a single source,
every life on this cosmos has birthed.
At thirteen when I picked the habit of
writing a diary, I wrote for weeks: my
commute through days. Waking. Studying.
Playing. Sleeping. Until mother said, the
feelings I make, solely matter. Today I felt
my day scaffold around the wandering
shrieks. To what extent have I domesticated
my helplessness. Lectured my sentience: this
is how Kalki will be incarnated. But the poem
desires to undo the sin of using metaphors for
the Bangladeshi Hindus. Again a tall dumbness
outlives the poet, oh, that’s me…
