'We discovered that one of the strongest links among us was questions about the morality of what we do: when do you press the shutter release and when do you cease being a photographer?' - Greg Marinovich, The Bang-Bang Club: Snapshots from a Hidden War
They tell me to stick to my roots because roots lead up to shoots. They tell me to stick to my origin unaware of how it acts as a prison, My roots are Draupadi's hair that was twisted and lugged, my roots are Panchali's saree that was tugged. My roots are Sita's wrist Ravana wrested, my roots are where Ahalya's chastity rested. My roots are parasites that eat up its own herb and ****, my roots are rat snakes that eat up its own tissue and meat. My roots are flames of fire that created and watered the plant of Sati, my roots are pools of blood and long ropes that drowned and hanged LaxmiBai and Moolmati. My roots are the dish misogyny flavoured with patriarchy, my roots are naked streams of Ganga washing off their lynching and anarchy. My roots are all the poison Shiva drank during the churning of the sea, my roots are Dhritrashtra's aspirations and ambiguity. My roots are its own herbivore, my roots are the lava that burns its own floor. And my roots are my flesh and bone, so I am stitched to my roots altogether, all alone. So as I cut my own roots, my roots chop me, hence I stick to my roots while my roots remain free.
Stick to whatever, She told me. Get it wrong, right Or do not. Flee to your scarier Shelter, One that is easy To spot. Drink wines From glasses Of doubt, Worship your Local canons. Stretch them Within and without, Stan the unpardoned Of lords.
Having it all Given to you, Acting completely Exposed, Trophies in pain Excruciate you: None of them **** you, Suppose.