**Originally published on Muse India**
For scores of centuries men had pillaged and plundered,
They etched their names upon beings and beasts and pieces of land
With bullets and horses and blood and gestures grand.
Then, one midnight some sixty-nine years ago
One little piece of the earth, teeming with millions and some more,
Proclaimed to the world its hopeful new independence
Told the tale of its birth, its fight, its resurrection after its long prison sentence.
That midnight there was laughter, there was rest, there was a dawn
Of bright beginnings, of a hope for happiness to spawn more smiles, of free morns.
Men celebrated, women celebrated, children were overjoyed.
That midnight the radio played a song sung by an articulate man
As the rain fell in senseless patterns outside, clanging against metal and tin foils,
For the monsoon waits for none, never mind a transnational plan,
The garbled wires carried forward a crackling song, of shackles undone and a new freedom found.
The water fell pitter-patter in the background
As if cleaning the earth of impurities left behind by vilayati fools,
Promising a fresh morning under self-rule.
That midnight the man and the rain sang the song of freedom.
**
At the stroke of midnight Sahiba strikes a match
To catch
The reflection of fire in a shiny piece of plastic
To see a glimmer, a sliver of torn silver wrapping on the floor
She sees nothing in the mess to still heart, sore
From beating against her ribcage.
Sahiba falls on her back, hands folded in prayer
Hoping she wouldn't have to bear those she didn't want
From him whom she didn't know.
Dear Shakti, give me an empty womb and clean blood
At the stroke of midnight Mahima smacks the old radio
The strain sputters out slowly, steadying itself cautiously
The voice warbles of witches and hunting, seclusion and burning
Mahima's face is swollen, hot, soft and wet
As her fingers reach between her young legs
And draw fresh blood like that of a lamb recently slaughtered
Robbed of its innocence right at god's alter
She doesn't understand who has burned or who has been hunted
All she knows is she is no longer a pure goddess, deeply loved and wanted.
At the stroke of midnight Noor looks up to the heavens
And thinks of words terrible and sharp in strings of threes
Together the faithful sisters will fight to free
Themselves from the dreaded words
United they will banish them from the lexicon of the faithful
And clean the old records
Of unjust history and lopsided laws
But tyrants they face to break the status quo that was.
At the stroke of midnight Jyoti awakes to hungry screams
Agatha writhes next to her, as if being devoured by demons in her dreams
Fighting fatigue and sleep, the creator cradles her faint being,
Instinctively knowing what the image created in her likeness needs
The child noisily suckles on her mother's breast
Hungrily lapping up what is best
And pure in a world empty of him who fathered her.
Jyoti rocks them both to sleep, forgetting many a slur
Hurled at the pair for surviving in the world not meant for them.
At the stroke of midnight Chandrima splits open scissors
And cuts out piece after piece of letters words thoughts and threats
Rape Delayed Burnt Dark Acid Reservation Justice Regrets
She reads about her sisters and writes about them all
The brown and the fair, the dark and clear are actors in her yarns
Protagonists by virtue of agency, not helpless victims in search of heroes
Some are in wheelchairs, shooting to the top, others are bound and gagged
And burnt at the cross
Adding digits and zeroes,
Their numbers multiply
They fight the world, sometimes disrupt norms, and other times comply.
**
At the stroke of midnight sixty nine years ago
A weary and hopeful man weaved a tale of dreams
Told the country of a new dawn, a destiny hitherto unforeseen
He announced to the world his country had overthrown its yoke
The dam of injustice and oppression was now broken
For more than 3 score years hence,
Jyoti,
Chandrima,
Mahima,
Noor,
Agatha,
Sahiba,
Waited in suspense, with forbearance and calm
For their own hallelujah, their promised beginning, their dawn
They thought their chains would melt, their ropes would tear
That they would share equally their newly freed land.
Six decades and nine years later, they are still waiting.
Hoping, fighting, demanding
For their India to be theirs.
For scores of centuries men had pillaged and plundered,
They etched their names upon beings and beasts and pieces of land
With bullets and horses and blood and gestures grand.
Then, one midnight some sixty-nine years ago
One little piece of the earth, teeming with millions and some more,
Proclaimed to the world its hopeful new independence
Told the tale of its birth, its fight, its resurrection after its long prison sentence.
That midnight there was laughter, there was rest, there was a dawn
Of bright beginnings, of a hope for happiness to spawn more smiles, of free morns.
Men celebrated, women celebrated, children were overjoyed.
That midnight the radio played a song sung by an articulate man
As the rain fell in senseless patterns outside, clanging against metal and tin foils,
For the monsoon waits for none, never mind a transnational plan,
The garbled wires carried forward a crackling song, of shackles undone and a new freedom found.
The water fell pitter-patter in the background
As if cleaning the earth of impurities left behind by vilayati fools,
Promising a fresh morning under self-rule.
That midnight the man and the rain sang the song of freedom.
**
At the stroke of midnight Sahiba strikes a match
To catch
The reflection of fire in a shiny piece of plastic
To see a glimmer, a sliver of torn silver wrapping on the floor
She sees nothing in the mess to still heart, sore
From beating against her ribcage.
Sahiba falls on her back, hands folded in prayer
Hoping she wouldn't have to bear those she didn't want
From him whom she didn't know.
Dear Shakti, give me an empty womb and clean blood
At the stroke of midnight Mahima smacks the old radio
The strain sputters out slowly, steadying itself cautiously
The voice warbles of witches and hunting, seclusion and burning
Mahima's face is swollen, hot, soft and wet
As her fingers reach between her young legs
And draw fresh blood like that of a lamb recently slaughtered
Robbed of its innocence right at god's alter
She doesn't understand who has burned or who has been hunted
All she knows is she is no longer a pure goddess, deeply loved and wanted.
At the stroke of midnight Noor looks up to the heavens
And thinks of words terrible and sharp in strings of threes
Together the faithful sisters will fight to free
Themselves from the dreaded words
United they will banish them from the lexicon of the faithful
And clean the old records
Of unjust history and lopsided laws
But tyrants they face to break the status quo that was.
At the stroke of midnight Jyoti awakes to hungry screams
Agatha writhes next to her, as if being devoured by demons in her dreams
Fighting fatigue and sleep, the creator cradles her faint being,
Instinctively knowing what the image created in her likeness needs
The child noisily suckles on her mother's breast
Hungrily lapping up what is best
And pure in a world empty of him who fathered her.
Jyoti rocks them both to sleep, forgetting many a slur
Hurled at the pair for surviving in the world not meant for them.
At the stroke of midnight Chandrima splits open scissors
And cuts out piece after piece of letters words thoughts and threats
Rape Delayed Burnt Dark Acid Reservation Justice Regrets
She reads about her sisters and writes about them all
The brown and the fair, the dark and clear are actors in her yarns
Protagonists by virtue of agency, not helpless victims in search of heroes
Some are in wheelchairs, shooting to the top, others are bound and gagged
And burnt at the cross
Adding digits and zeroes,
Their numbers multiply
They fight the world, sometimes disrupt norms, and other times comply.
**
At the stroke of midnight sixty nine years ago
A weary and hopeful man weaved a tale of dreams
Told the country of a new dawn, a destiny hitherto unforeseen
He announced to the world his country had overthrown its yoke
The dam of injustice and oppression was now broken
For more than 3 score years hence,
Jyoti,
Chandrima,
Mahima,
Noor,
Agatha,
Sahiba,
Waited in suspense, with forbearance and calm
For their own hallelujah, their promised beginning, their dawn
They thought their chains would melt, their ropes would tear
That they would share equally their newly freed land.
Six decades and nine years later, they are still waiting.
Hoping, fighting, demanding
For their India to be theirs.
