graveyard
they say start from the little shoe in the dust
to then tell a story of war
of morality’s graveyard
morality—an illusion in this world
where genocide, like shoes is manufactured globally
where slogans born from blood, become market fare
our weapon made of convenient rage
but those who know what white phosphorus smells like
and who have stared at the black pits of hunger
are not blinded, they know
all too well who the enemy is
and that the sky over Al-Aqsa one day will ask for forgiveness
they know there is an eventual sun
promised to them by the Mediterranean
and that the Jordan will lead them there.
they say end with a body, bullet riddled
and let the readers decide who pulled the trigger
but this country’s final war is not subjective
it is an offspring of the same greed
with its shadow over mineral veins,
and forested lungs, it is no coincidence-
the most dangerous truth lives here
the truth that is “encountered”, that is
found wrapped in tarpaulin
when blood is spilt, it is not the nation
turning red, it is the mahua and Indravati
and the people carrying the wounds
it is no coincidence- the most crushed
are the ones who can destroy the tyrant’s dream
of his world being the final one.
Adorno said after Auschwitz that poetry is not possible
if that were true then grief
would never be anything more than rubble
there would be no Music of Human Flesh
or Embers, there would certainly
be no fighting back that burns
down the effigies of morality and subjectivity
war exists, whether its story is told by us or not
as does every resistor, survivor, martyr
and child who asks if the dogs eating the dead
will turn into people
and even the trees that know to die standing up
they are in front of our eyes
only when we choose to truly put our ear to the land will we hear
their song, their poem, and their story.
oppari
my grandmother is cutting onions with an oiled knife
she calls out to her son, who sits on the wall
between their home and a graveyard
he shouts that he has seen a leg move and then a hand
my grandmother reaches out to the closest piece of wood she can
to find God, four decades later she walks
in circles around the temple of he who
doesn't even look at her, even as blisters
open on her feet, she prays, for it's the only comfort she has
for her son so he can be the one to light her pyre
there is a nameless blue flower in Jambudweepam
its petals are said to hold both joy and sorrow
but in a world poisoned by caste and in a body
that is always running, it remains
a fruit of grief that no altar will accept
my mother too, inherited a fear of grieving
as a student she used to draw ixora blossoms around the corpses
in her forensic textbook
never did she imagine that she would hold
her brother’s hand, barely warm, on the way to the finality
of the morgue, or of the sea, where they scattered his ashes
at Marina Beach, where it rained
she drinks a weak tea as the meenkarar’s song
comes and goes in waves, the midnight wind blows
the city and the entire world are empty to her.
on the way home, she slowly peels the fruit of grief
and welcomes the staining.
parchin kari
in a balcony encased in a balcony
I counted our separations
it took me many years
to understand the weight of absence
the kind that makes its home
in the anticipation of departure
I know now the gaze I never met
as I tied my shoes by your staircase
an ask that hangs in the air
to linger on the landing
to leave something behind, a piece
of clothing, a gesture, a word
like parchin kari
I would ask you mindlessly to love
without pain, looking out of the window
while I hid my own grief in a jar
of dried prawns or an abandoned house
in Chaderghat, that would get flooded
and overrun with cobras come the rain
I know now the fear of a lover’s
reticent back, who leaves
to buy cigarettes and perhaps time
and why Begum Akhtar understood
love as being inlaid
in pain like a moon
in starlessness
I would ask you why you see the end
in all beginnings when it was me
that had not seen you, or myself
as children of transience
waiting for a hand over our chests
not as a binding but as rivers
I know now what you meant
when you spoke of emptiness
our waters may not fill the void
in us, but that they flow
whether in rage or gently,
is how the night and love know how long
to last.
Chetan is a researcher based in Hyderabad. Poetry and photography are his windows to the world of art, supported by a passion for reading about history, politics and literature. These are means for him to understand his place in the world better, where he has come from and what motivates him on a daily basis. One can usually find him pacing on the terrace while listening to a podcast and observing the mood of the evening sky. Or one can find him sitting by the window in his room sipping coffee, in the company of his best friend, Albus the shih-tzu.