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Of Sit-in Protests

I can see the thousands of people
Divided into groups of twenty to fifty,
Men, women and children
Workers, actors and more kids in school uniform
Politicians, pensioners, activists and professionals
Bomb-scared folks and terrorised masses
Looted individuals and loafers and loungers,
One and all, in mourning dresses
In each corner of the street and the commons.
The roads are landmarked with tragic stories
Of murders and kidnaps
Of threats and useless government,
Each sit-in protest tells tales
Of murders, kidnaps, threats and misery.

Bananas and dried coconuts and apples weep for humanity
The squeezed bananas on the mud dish reek of bad memories,
The unopened coconut add more nightmares
The rotten apples only multiply the tragedies
Of cursed lives and equally cursed people,
The layer of uncooked rice below, cushions
More impending cursed lives and people
It seems so, in each gathering at first glance
Toona leaves adorn the mud pot like it will help
Like in how the priests would denounce the devils,
The illumination comes only from the lighted candles
Even in broad daylight we have lost our sight,
Darkness in daylight, light-less in the night, so fight
This is our war cry.

In red and black with unreadable texts
On torn placards and soiled festoons poked for the wind
Each cohort screams for justice and fairness:
Release the abducted person—dash-dash-dash
Criticise—dash-dash-dash—for the tragedy
Stop hurling grenades into civilian areas
Stop killing the innocent folks
Stop this and stop that
Pay arrears; or tolerate cease-work strikes
Ignore not; or face dire consequences;
—The fabrics on the festoons have become tears
So humiliated are the fruits and nuts
While a new set of disasters is peeping from the horizon
Openly through the holes of our lives.





PS: We get only what we beg for, not always though. Across the world, it is only in my neighbourhood that we have to protest for the most basic needs. The good news is that we are so used to it, and regardless of the severity or insignificance of a case, we are ever ready with the coconuts, bananas, toona leaves and all, to occupy a space to protest pathetically in each leikai or leirak, depending on the expected number of people and sit in, while those who are responsible are lost in their debauchery as always.


Repost: A poem from Sep 2012

Puff, Powder, Power, People & Puke

At the mountains of marijuana
The military plays hide and seek with the guerrilla
In the hills of heroin, the poppy fields bloom
Like Mao's a thousand flowers but in gloom;

A thousand of marijuana joints march
A million of skin the heroin shots parch
Atop the mountains and the hills' circus
The theatre curtain is so obvious

As the blood-stained curtain spreads slowly in the valley,
So clearly too, does each on their own. The absurdity.



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