I know its hard at times for u
To understand me
Less words just become
Basic non verbal communication

Im use to blue lines
And 1 red
3 holes for some half mooned
Clips to fill
Followed with a white canvas
My binder paper strays

The pen bleeds out its ink
Like taking in a stray
I so much hidden
So many words
Alot of me to show and say

But thats just paper
Thats just how my heart breathes
For the pen to paper
Is how i listein
And how i see

But this way of communication
Isnt fitting
For ur needs
So we sit through text
Never really speaking of the things
We seek to appeal

Just words yhat are wordless
To pass by our time
How long does nothing last
When u plan to spend a lifetime

In this layered darkness,
deaths are mere numbers
carelessly scribbled on
a blackened wall, unnoticed.

Grief is left out in the open
like orphaned children,
no one bothered to count
as it has no significance.

Isn't it  meaningless
as darkness festers still.

Every war claimed won,
leaves behind heaps of
mutilated corpses, that
in nightmares of living,
get up and walk speaking in tongues
with blood letting bodies falling apart.

So many concealed graves are
camouflaged, hidden from the eyes
of the people,whose time is precious
to waste  for such things as war crimes.


But these blackened graves break
the hearts of countless families,
where laughter dies for ever,darkness stalks.
Faceless loved ones of the killed,
widows and children uncontrollably cry,
cursing their lives  for this walk through the dark.

Every love life is an invisible bound book,
of many stories of pain, recounted in tearful details,
not easily erased, but much more lives are forgotten,
like cattle killed during long season of celebration,
when people eat, drink, and make merry till they faint,
sleep long hours to sedate their consciousness heavy
with guilt for what they do repeatedly, remorseless.

I wake to the news of another lynching
As our boys scream Bleed Blue
And over the border, the Green Girls rejoice
And somewhere in Jharkhand
Two families mourn the death of their men
Cattle traders? Terrorists? Muslim?
With cloth stuffed in their throats
And arms tied behind
Hatred showing in the mob mentality
Another dark blot on our secular fabric

And I watch a short film, India, India
Of a young boy on Tuesday selling ganeshas at a temple
Another image of the same boy on a Friday
Selling taweez and chanting Ya Ali
Outside Mumbai’s Haji Ali
And on Sunday, the same boy singing the praises
of the Lord outside a church, selling amulets
And I smile
This is the India I love, the different faiths
The acceptance, the co-existence

As the morning drones on, I watch and participate
In the endless debates on Facebook and Twitter
Of people posing, taking sides, sounding pedantic
While they sit comfortably in their homes
Sipping ginger tea made by an underage maid
While their Labrador retriever is taken for a walk
By their Nepali driver and the Muslim cook smokes a bidi
In the garden with the Bihari maali where their son plays

But what will happen to the sons of the lynched cattle traders?
What will happen to the brothers of the women *****?
What will happen to the mothers of the sons killed?
What will happen to the fathers of the unborn children
Killed for their mistake of being a girl child?
Is this the India we want to grow up in?
Is this the India we want to have children in?
Is this the India we want to grow old in?

Wake up, my country, it is still dawn
The road is long and far and we have miles to walk
Towards peace and freedom and love
Towards acceptance and equality and oneness
Get off that sofa and make a difference
Participate, vote, empower, create, enable
It’s up to you whether our country goes this way or that
So, wake up, my country, it is still dawn
Wake up, my country, it is still dawn