A Poem for Bangladeshi Hindus

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…