All Things Considered

Summer of Rage

Wrote a hunger striker in JNU, who is still going strong on the 10th day as I write this, a simple Facebook post: “Water is the elixir of life.” He would know, because he has survived just on water for the last ten days in this heat which walks on the streets like sleeping snakes.  And this is water from an earthen pot with the smell of the earth and the scorching season of summer of the Hindi heartland. And, yet, he is quiet, like a poet, and he smiles, like a tree.

I grow old, I wear my trousers rolled

Seasons arrive and leave like music. They leave soundlessly, like mother’s footsteps and the sound of her bangles, like music. An ode to joy, sometimes – Beethoven’s unheard symphony. Sometimes, an ode to the hard labour of the poorest and the peasants, celebrating, with Salil Chaudhary. And yet, there is an ache in some part of the body and soul. Perhaps in the inner-most recesses of the skin. Eyes. Fingers. Eyelashes. I grow old, I grow old. I wear my trousers rolled, as TS Eliot would say.

The Conspirator

Activist Teesta Setalvad, who runs Citizens for Justice and Peace in Mumbai, sent an SOS asking why the  media in Delhi is not covering the Zakia Jafri petition’s arguments, which nails Narend

Life is Beautiful

As I write this one day after Holi, April has almost arrived, but it might not really be the cruellest month, as the poem goes. The cracked lips of May might actually scorch the eyes, and fingers, and the soul, with its hot desert winds. Winter has gone, but there is still the fading, fleeting, familiar nip in the air, as the North Mountain Wind caresses the rough cotton of my long baggy white cotton shirt, and becomes longing and desire, leaving nothing but the coolness of the wind, like the smell of wet jasmine.