Scabs crusting;
Feet wrinkle
with an unrelenting
wetness
in cold socks.

The soldier walks
reaching the point
of contact,
a swift interlude
of gorilla combat.

After the gun fight
he collects
small bullet casings.

Then when silence
finally comes at night
he takes them out,
rolling them
through and around
his fingers.

Various
colored casings
of memories chasing
each potential
point of pain;
He imagines
the cycle of sorrow
that each projectile
might have injected
into this world.

Then the soldier
buries the bullet casings
and
finally, leaves the battlefield.

the world doesn’t feel the same anymore
these past few years the air has slowly been tinted black
thickening, viscous and sour around our bones
breaking the ones below and leaving some of us to watch helpless
waiting for the air to rise
although somehow
coming from above
bullets shot in the dark didn’t make much sound
until finally youthful
tear stained faces
pulled the bullets up into clear air in their grasps and observed what we’ve become
with a clarity none of us knew
a clarity none of those people know
them with the black tinted air flowing from their mouths
becoming more sour, and more heavy with each breath, each utterance
each denial
they make
youthful faces with words far stronger than bullets

aimed at those who exhale black

the world is different now
we all felt like dissolving in the despair
instead
fortified by it

i join hands with my peers and we climb up above the earth
fight our way up
to the artificial atmosphere
and we throw our fists at the oppressive black film surrounding the earth
we hurl our bodies into it
we scream
we cry

we cra c k it open

one inch at a time

A boy goes to school

And tears his schoolmates apart

With metal piercing bullets

This is normal now.


Igor Goldkind

I thought I had run into you when I saw Zoya on the brickroads of Karachi. She was carrying the weight of her uncovered head with Rumi on her lips and rumours in her smile; I couldn’t help but wonder if she too hummed Tagore on lonely nights.

As I approached my past, the unmanned dinghys of the Arabian Sea seemed to have followed me from a different harbour, where the skyscrapers stood like unopened letters stacked to impress your firstborn child. The salty sea breeze might have been your childhood friend, but then these waves were always mine.

Maybe It was time to let go.

We kissed for 12 months while the bullets made love to the crumbling walls of Karachi, a city with the infinite passion of penniless poets and warrior saints. Draped in the lightest of cashmere, Zoya couldnt help but be worried – the curtains of my thoughtful musicals never cared much for bulletproof jackets.

Zoya’s grandfather was a veteran of two wars, the smoke from his imported cigars still fills our balcony like the laughter of your firstborn fills the halls of your new sea-facing mansion – I wonder if Naina even knows my name. My books have begun to sell now – you should make her read ‘Summer Wounds’ one day.

The newspapers tell me I am widely read by the underground leadership because of Asif – my brother in law who has taken up arms against men who want to burn Zoya for walking with her head uncovered – Karachi is no longer the same.

They have banned my books now – apparently God hates the words I use to describe our summer love; do you also feel the same way ?

I dont know, maybe they are right – after all Zoya still flinches every time I mention your name.

Zoya’s grandfather is sick – the years of tobacco have now given way to the gunpowder smoke – I am lucky you stopped me when you could. Do you still make people change their ways ? Maybe. But something tells me even you can’t help Karachi.

Its your birthday today, I know you haven’t gotten a piece from me in the last 10 years but this time it will be different. There is a fading sound of Zoya’s screams as I leave for the post office; i cant let her love wipe my past.

A bullet hits me from nowhere ; I hear a distant cry of an animal celebrating the first **** of the day. The pain is blinding but they shoot 10 more bullets into me, there is no modesty in ****** it seems.

As I lie dying with eleven bullets buried in a heart that has known more wounds than love, I have begun to wonder if I should have chosen a different harbour for my love – the words of Tagore suddenly seem far more familiar than those of Rumi.

Maybe its time to let go.