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Monday, 29 August 2022 00:36

22 Poems : Neha Singh

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Bangalore, India

 


‘The Witches of India’

I don’t believe in them myself,

but perhaps you have heard of them.

They say there are witches in India,

monsters who want to destroy us all.

Tell me, have you seen them yourself?

Or are they just made up in cautionary tales?

 

Those in power tell us not to worry,

things are well and under control.

A witch-hunt is held with vengeful regularity,

with cunning rage and relentless ferocity.

Some ghouls are sent to rot in jail,

others simply put to death any which way.

 

Our leaders concoct fearful tales,

placing the dread of the evil ‘other’,

deep within the believing hearts.

I am an unbeliever, half a witch myself.

A mongrel on the margins, who should I fear?

The witches, or those that set them alight?

 

Like a ‘dayan’ I exist where the shadows lie.

I am the ‘adivasi’, the ‘rakshas’, dark as the night.

I am the Naxal, the starving, raging ‘pest’.

Or is it my freedom of choice that scares you?

The Dalit Christians, the Ram Rahims,

Are they the ‘danavs’ under India’s bed?

 

I am not your genie, your traditional slave,

That grants your wishes, or cleans your shit.

I scream like a banshee, my voice unleashed.

The pain pours out like an ominous spell.

I am the wrath of the tiger, unchained.

I am your made-up ‘monster’ who will not go away.

 

Demonic masks are glued tight to my face.

Discarding the lens of prejudice,

do you want to see me as I am?

Beyond my skin, my nose, my caste,

will you reach out through the wrath?

Will you look behind my mask?

 


The Complex

In the apartment complex,

the bee hives pop up relentlessly,

clinging to the underside of balconies,

higher and higher, away from reach.

 

The woman in the nightgown

watches the busy bees

go in and out, obsessively,

mimicking her husband’s routine.

 

The old man sits on the park bench,

and patiently watches the snail move.

His house weighs heavily upon him,

and inch by inch his life passes by.

 

The snake, snug in his soft hole,

peeps out to watch the children play.

Their unruly feet alarm his little heart.

He waits patiently for them to go away.

 

The tired worker comes home, at last.

But when the mind is not free,

There can be no real rest,

only the dread of the days to come.

 

The apartment is a complex place,

an ecosystem, a flickering mirage.

Like the little blue dot upon which we live,

momentarily busy like the honey bees.

 

What I Lost

Yesterday, when you did not appear,

I looked for you relentlessly.

Among the trees, under the bridge

in the shade of dark clouds, in pouring rain.

But you were not there, anywhere,

and now, I am lost.

 

There is no time to rest and I do not tire,

following next the road that leads

down incomplete, broken memory lanes.

There are pieces scattered everywhere

But no matter where I look, I cannot find

all of you, and that which was all you.

 

Old love, you have become a bit stale now,

existing only in unsolicited dreams.

In the brightness of the morning light

your face, once more, fades away,

replaced by newer, softer faces.

I have gained so much, but your loss remains.

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