Searching… and 3 other poems

google knows what I did last summer,
the fragrance of my soap. It knows that I’m hungry
even before I do. The state has ten national agencies
peeking into my computer (for my safety, of course).
Restaurants, banks, hotels, cinema halls, cafes
are in hot pursuit, a hiccup away. They’re
discussing where I’ve been, where I’m going.

But nobody can tell me where Najeeb is.

The mysterious circumstances that surround Najeeb’s disappearance, and the police’s failings, have been well documented in the media. For readers who would like to know more: https://www.thequint.com/news/india/four-years-jnu-student-najeeb-ahmed-missing-where-is-he-abvp-fatima-nafees-mystery-explain#read-more

This city stretches tired legs, drapes curtains
of silence over those she disdains tonight.

The candles are lit, dinner is ready, bring wine
we’ll marinate our anger in love tonight.

Do you remember how we met? Did the moon
unspool into questions as she does tonight?

death is no stranger to this land of fixers,
we must be discreet in our protest tonight.

Dogs howl at the dwindling light, tread with care as
You tiptoe through the winding bazaar tonight.

A browser window is the needle that tells
me that it is too late for mourning tonight.

When the soul flies from the body’s cage, do not
flinch, a heart of fire beats elsewhere tonight.

A son mistakes his childhood for a stone. The
valley is midwife to azadi tonight.

What is this parody of separation?
I cannot be a silent witness tonight.

The gates of the promised land must remain shut.
Hold my hand. Let us be gatekeepers tonight.

*Written 125 days after the abrogation of article 370 that gave special status to Jammu & Kashmir. A period of curfew and complete lockdown ensued, with an unprecedented communications gag on the entire region.

At Mandir Marg police station, I saw,
as I stepped off a private bus spilling
with young anti-CAA protestors,
the oiled moustache
of a havaldar waiting for the student
whose tremulous gait cradles his fear.
His eyes gleam with the flower
of defiance, his lips atremble
with hope, and impertinence.

A smile quietly makes its home
in his eyes, as he turns to me-

“It’s my first time”

— A few kilometres away
in another cage,

Outside Daryaganj police station,
on the darkest night of this winter yet,
an orange nucleus of fire,
a piece broken from the sickled
moon, began to smart, and sputter,
now red, carved
into the palm of a tailor.

The night lay writhing,
ablaze in his eyes as he
stepped out of the police station
after a 7 hour rendezvous with
pain –

“It’s my first time”

On 20/12/2019, many underprivileged young Muslim men were taken into police custody at Daryaganj Police station, Delhi, from around Jama Masjid. They were kept in the police station overnight. Articles that refer to this event.
Anti-CAA protests: 15 arrested in connection with Delhi’s Daryaganj violence
CAA: From Daryaganj to ITO, the protest night that was
*The title and form is a tangential reference to A. K. Ramanujan’s ‘Madura: Two Movements’

Where is a slogan born?
When does a sack of
rice begin to speak?

The moon laughs tonight
as didi roasts the revolution
in her tava, before feeding
the hands that distribute
pamphlets, and anger.

We sell poems cheap, but poetry
you can do without. What will you
do when they steal the fire
from your eyes?

O, my land,
you are salt,
quiet confidante
who I know by her absence.

This city is a cauldron of smoke
and fog, tear gas mixed with cigarette
draught, exhaust fumes folded into smog,
and ashes.

I lift my head and taste the rancid
breeze.

The wind has changed.

At Mandir Marg police station, I saw,
as I stepped off a private bus
spilling with young anti-CAA protestors,
the oiled moustache of a havaldar
waiting for the student
whose tremulous gait cradles his fear.
His eyes gleam with the flower of defiance,
his lips atremble with hope, and impertinence.
A smile quietly makes its home in his eyes,
as he turns to me-
“It’s my first time”

—A few kilometres away
in another cage,
Outside Daryaganj police station,
on the darkest night of this winter yet,
an orange nucleus of fire,
a piece broken from the sickled moon,
began to smart, and sputter,
now red, carved into the palm of a tailor.
The night lay writhing, ablaze in his eyes
as he stepped out of the police station
after a 7 hour rendezvous with pain –
“It’s my first time”

Where is a slogan born?
When does a sack of rice begin to speak?
The moon laughs tonight
as didi roasts the revolution in her tava,
before feeding the hands that distribute pamphlets, and anger.
We sell poems cheap, but poetry you can do without.
What will you do when they steal the fire from your eyes?
O, my land, you are salt,
quiet confidante who I know by her absence.
This city is a cauldron of smoke and fog,
tear gas mixed with cigarette draught,
exhaust fumes folded into smog, and ashes.
I lift my head and taste the rancid breeze.
The wind has changed.