A Tourniquet for the Land
If not for the extortion
If not for the intimidation
It’s been long
I have been working in this hospital
Right in the centre of Imphal
For my ilk, it’s the paradise
And the people, their slaying never suffice
And some maimed, some deranged
And more sick souls on sickbeds
And the filthy liquid they shed
And my only solace: the spirit of service.
It’s a good business
If not for the extortion
If not for the intimidation
The masters say we are only bleeding
When we are only building
Tomorrow and beyond.
Get a tourniquet if you would all respond in unison
It’s a good business
If not for the extortion
If not for the intimidation
See, see it clearly here
There, there, these are mere fluids
Of hate and pain and avarice
And if you would still say it’s real blood
Tattoo my forehead:
"People are gods in a democracy."
It’s a good business:
if not for the extortion,
if not for the threats that breathe down our necks.
It’s been long,
I’ve worked in this hospital
at the heart of Imphal—
For my kind, a fragile paradise.
But their slaying never suffices.
Some arrive maimed,
some deranged,
some looking as if struck by warheads.
More sick souls on sickbeds
and the filthy liquid they shed.
Still, I hold on—
to my only solace: the spirit of service.
It’s a good business:
if not for the extortion,
if not for the shadowed intimidation.
They say we are only bleeding
when all we’ve ever done is build:
a tomorrow, and something beyond.
Bring a tourniquet, if you're so eager to chime in.
But all I see is greed,
and lust thick as grime.
It’s a good business:
if not for the extortion,
if not for the stench of power unchecked.
Look closely!
there, and there,
these are no ordinary fluids.
They run thick with hate,
with pain,
with the rot of avarice.
And if you still say,
“This is real blood,”
then tattoo my forehead:
People are gods in a democracy.
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| PS: This is not a rock-climbing wall |
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