Sometimes, one is assailed by a hopelessness, a frustration born out of the fact that one cannot do anything about the way one feels. You open the newspaper and are bombarded by a dozen stories that speak to the horrible things that go on in this world. Anger, disgust, sadness...and despair. Of course, there are also the many stories of hope and survival that cause one to smile. So we retreat from the assault of the news into a space that is our own, cushion ourselves in conversations about this and that, surround ourselves by the tedium of everyday decision making. Which outfit to wear? What to make for breakfast? Should I do the groceries today or tomorrow? And what about that meeting I need to prepare for? Should I call the electrician to come fix the stairwell light that's been out for weeks?
In the middle of all this, when (and if) we allow the consciousness of the world to intrude, we run the risk of being blanketed again by that old feeling of "what can I do about it but feel?"
So, you asked for it. The two poems that have found their way into the Human Rights Poetry Anthology, nestled among 148 others that are beautiful in their expressions of hope amidst despair, concern amidst apathy.
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In the middle of all this, when (and if) we allow the consciousness of the world to intrude, we run the risk of being blanketed again by that old feeling of "what can I do about it but feel?"
So, you asked for it. The two poems that have found their way into the Human Rights Poetry Anthology, nestled among 148 others that are beautiful in their expressions of hope amidst despair, concern amidst apathy.
Quotidian
Terrorism is a way of life
like my morning toast
healthy whole wheat
masking the grinding of bones
salted with the perspiration
from the brows and arms and legs
of suicide prone farmers;
or the orange juice
imported from reconstituted republics
into colonies of consumption
their choreographed dreams exploited
by real estate developers
selling bits and gigs and terrabytes
of mindspace.
Our everydays, our lives,
our lifestyles
cannot do without the products
of habitual violence.
It spices my rudeness
as I disregard
the helplessly signaling pedestrian
in my workday haste.
It spikes the ratings graphs
of television shows
that hold us hostage,
primed as we are
for their distant drama.
***
Kashmir
The edges of the textbook map
bleed quietly into my studious mind
like ink on blotting paper,
while scribes scratch out
the noisy newsprint
that a hurrying-away boy tosses onto my balcony
every morning.
Social studies lessons
taught without emotion
full of numbing dates and
unpronounceable names
blind our children
to the devouring
reasons of state.
Young men in the northern hills
imagining insurgency;
desperately demonstrating mothers
echoing those from other, no-less-dirty, wars,
trying to reclaim
the lost youth of their generations;
and the elders left to mourn
behind veils and worn-out blankets,
their stories eclipsed
by the questions and answers
in civil services examinations
that push all of life
into a dull green paper folder
to be filed away
in the twisting corridors
of power.
Please do tell me what (if) they make you feel.
Comments
Best wishes,
Anjali