freshly in her grave

the thin throat of the pale girl
the pale throat of the thin one
silenced in the shadow of a darkness
that never searched for any light

the weight on her shoulders
its vision through her eyes
could she blink a bit
or even look at her side

there were hardly miles that she had gazed
on this deceptive ocean of hatred
trapped between her young innocence
and a pluralistic ignorance all around

around kids we are all kids
sure enough, aren’t we
or are we feral animals first
with all the depravity that comes with it

what is the purpose
of politics and religion
when all this exceptional elegance
hides such base instincts

powerful precedents
and inherited stereotypes.
modern manifestation
of an ancient prejudice

with occasional remembrance of humanity
exhuming superficial memories
has time been standing still
or has it moved too far ahead of us

why is it that a death, a tragedy,
makes more sense than the life it lost
why this proximity between love and indifference
has to have a tragedy in between

what were we thinking .
when we weren’t thinking
there is something unsettling
about being reassured in troubled times

how can we be civilized
when we can be so barbaric
how did we develop such apathy
with the most disturbing of things

there is ice in our veins
when it needs to be
there is blood in our veins
when it needs to be

there is no blood in her veins
there is no ice in her veins
only this didn’t need to be
She is lying freshly in her grave

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At so young an age!

Are we so careless cogs in a machine?
So cynical about our ability as to tolerate,
So disbelieving of our desires as to limp,
At so young an age!

Are we so accepting of our plight?
So apologetic of the status quo as to stand by,
So devoted to the sickness as to propagate,
At so young an age!

Are we so pathetically predictable?
So redundant and bureaucratic as to imitate,
So obedient and intransigent as to circulate,
At so young an age!

Are we so cynical of our capabilities?
So lifelessly content to seek what others so,
So un-promiscuous and uniform,
At so young an age!

The question

How do we live?
How do we die?
Perhaps, that is not the question.

How do we live while we die?
How do we die while we live?
Perhaps, that is the question.

Unsent Messages

If messenger could save unsent messages
I wonder how many drafts I would have –
Of unresolved questions
And unquestioned answers.

It would be a cascade of thoughts,
At times, more real than those ‘sent’
At others, just silly and innocent –
A mixture of differen me-s.

Sometimes its my slow response speed,
Unable to understand the sea of emojis,
And ever cascading list of shorthands.
Oh, I just keep pressing ‘clear’.

If messenger could save unsent messages,
Would FB ‘deep learn’ from it?
Would it send ‘recommends’ based on these?
Would those be just be another piece of data?

Who is say the message was unsent?
If it fed a server on some distant farmland,
Who is to say those thoughts were unresolved?
If they were resolved neatly on an algorithm.

Memory

There is little to be remembered,
Everything else is a reconstruction
Of the violence and of separation.

Still trapped in the same confinement,
Only place where it feels confortable,
How incredibly pathetic and terrible.

There has been no touch, no connection,
Of this lonely being with another,
If only there was a person to consider.

That something it misses and fears,
The boldness and confidence – its hubris,
It does not sit easy with a silent bliss.

There was a time when it dared to express,
Put down and laughed at – pretty much failed,
The resolve to express – it quailed.

What misery it must feel, it knows not yet,
Is anything really new after every December,
It has so little to forget, or even to remember.

https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSneSD69M6U7sidSjEawqLgu0BLXfYaO577DwJcge3x66cwGKy1

What will you say to him?

What will you say to him,
Who died without a hym,
Who is dead but telecast live,
On whom flies swarmed from their hives?

You who butcher another being,
With much more regard for a thing,
You who doesn’t even cloak a dagger,
And roam around rinsed of swagger.

Did you feel your blood,cold,
When with pride, the story you told?
Were you still hot with hate,
Many others still to eliminate?

What will you say to him,
To your nephew who recorded the film,
When he grows a bit trim,
Or in your image, will we find him?

A Muslim migrant worker from West Bengal was killed in Rajasthan by a man who made his nephew record the murder while ranting against Islam (here). Both West Bengal and Rajasthan are states in North India.

Someday

From stillness to motion,

Silence to sound,

Cries to laughter,

Earth to sky,

Strangeness to acquaintance,

Chills to warmth,

Indifference to difference,

War to peace,

Air to breath,

Routine to passion,

Order to disorder,

There is a road I hope to find someday.