Excerpt: This Kind of Child
Mustard seeds sought in vain: only death is found. The body's frailty,…
Read more →Hands seize bread, yellowed letters, and revolutionary songs, silencing a father's fear.
For eight hours, they search his house,
help themselves to the bread
that sits crumbling on the table.
They help themselves to the love letters
he had written his wife at age twenty two,
run their fingers on their yellow age.
They help themselves to a book by Marx
he had bought on the footpath of Abids for ten rupees,
the dust on its spine thick as the country’s decline.
They help themselves to a photograph of Ambedkar,
and then laugh at the spider that scurries from behind it.
One of them mock-aims a gun at it.
They help themselves to his worries about his wife
and what they are doing to her in the next room.
They help themselves to the father- fear in the pit of his stomach.
What will become of my daughter if…?
They help themselves to the revolutionary songs in his head.
They even sing them out loud,
their voices hard and mocking.
The words dart like arrows into the dark night
that crouches by the window,
silent and afraid.