A fineness of grace

A dewdrop of love

condenses upon

a cold heart…

A spring of hope

suddenly sprouts

in the desert of despair…

In a moment

a man decides

to die

so another

might live….

A father-husband

saves families

while his own

perishes….

A policeman

chooses death

so a terrorist

might live

and tell the tale….

The darkness

of inhumanity

is illuminated with

a fineness of grace

a deathless determination

a fearless compassion…

Any day now

Any day now

I expect

the great mother goddess

to rise in revolt

in this ancient land

that she has nurtured

with her breath and milk and love

whose rivers carry her blood-benediction

whose very earth is her body

in her we all exist…

Any day now

I expect

the great mother goddess

to shrug off her benevolence

and turn against her children

a terrible beauty

astride a rampaging tiger

or perhaps

the old crone

who dances death

any time now…

For, hasn’t she taken offence

at far less provocation

than presented by

scarred wombs

from which

have been ripped out

her own emanations

stopped from being born

because they are

what she is — female?

Any time now

I expect

the great mother goddess

of this ancient land

to fill the breasts

of us ordinary women

with her divine rage

her unstoppable courage

and then we, her daughters

will rise

ululating and angry

adorned in red

millions of mother goddesses

carrying our emanations

 in ironclad wombs…

Then perhaps

this massacre of innocents

will stop?

Say cheers!

It’s that time of the year again. When we brush the cobwebs off tricolours and our patriotic spirit. “The national anthem is my favourite song. And I get so upset when people don’t stand when it is played,” a starlet gushes. So, does she stand bolt upright and listen to the national anthem every time she wishes to relax? That’s what the rest of us do, you know, listen to our favourite songs when we want to relax.

How do we celebrate the anniversary of our independence as a nation? With tricolour sweets, sarees, bindis, and any other surface that might lend itself to being coloured into saffron, white and green. What does the tricolour mean, what do these colours mean? Who cares? Have fun, yaar. Say cheers with a tricolour mocktail.

If its not the tricolour, its got to be a thin person (child preferably, oh cho chweet!) dressed in a white dhoti, round spectacles and brandishing a long stick. The Mahatma, you see. We have to remember him, at least what he looked like. No problem that we hardly remember what he stood for. He got us independence, right? With Gandhigiri, right? Say cheers to Munnabhai. There’s no Gandhi like Munnabhai! Hey, was that really a ‘m’ocktail?

This year, the din is particularly loud. It’s been 60 glorious years, you see. And look where we are. The biggest democracy, the fastest growing economy, the loudest cheerer of our cricket team, the most wondrous example of secularism…… Everybody say cheers!

Hey, don’t get me wrong. I am no party pooper. I love to toast everything worth toasting. But I do have a problem. And that is with allowing synthetic, garish, filmy displays of patriotism take over an occasion that must lead to some serious soul-searching. At a time when so many people identify themselves with their caste, religion, region and language identities, where do we place the idea of India? What is the direction we would like to move ahead in — a materialistic soul-killing environment destroying focus on commerce and economy, or some sort of a middle ground that is sensitive, compassionate, just?

 I know, I know. It’s old fashioned to talk about social justice and such things. But that is the powerful, radical idea on which this nation was built. Isn’t it time to relook at it 60 years on?

I’ll say cheers to that.