A Poem for Peace in Times of Upheaval

 

Inkwells run dry, as

Masks accompany gasps

People picked up like litter

And deposited like trash,

In detention centers made for profits

Despairing and vast,

Not for the good of the public,

But out of blustery political 

Bravado,

By chest-beating chimpanzees

Playing out their fantasies

Of a world dominance hierarchy:

Blacks at the bottom rung,

Browns one step up,

Undocumented or not-

White supremacy isn't as far-flung

As the silent majority thinks,

Operating deep in the unconscious,

A test for our moral conscience,

Analyzable by a shrink?

Who am I to say?

I'm none of the above-

Half white-half brown,

American and Indian,

Still, with fair skin

Soon to witness,

the unity of Chindians,

And Planet Earth citizens,

Because when one nation and its enterprises

Own the whole world wide,

And the world wide web,

Where we watch, along for the ride,

When it's obvious who does most the work

On the immigrant and outsourced side,

It's only a matter of time

Before this world order crumbles

Because it's just not right

Signed- 

Simple, sincere, and humble

-sanam manas

The Falsity of History

I read through the comments

Of people on Instagram

Going back and forth about what happened

In history,

Never without an agenda,

Even if that agenda is simply

To set the record straight.

Though…

Truth can’t be carved out of eroded valleys,

Which time has already coursed through

Leaving behind only fractions of remains—

And not the other great expanses of events

That time sweeps away unflinchingly

Without making any marks.

The geniuses you’d never have heard of,

The crimes left unresolved,

The billions of everyday experiences,

The mundane, the profane, the sacred,

The goings on until expiration,

Lost, forgotten,

Impossible to name,

Impossible to describe,

Out of sight and outside time,

(For all intents and purposes).

Here, then, I honour all that has been wiped away,

Deleted,

Carelessly or carefully

Or by chance,

Knowing that history is not too far from a sham,

As best as we want to remember the glorious pasts,

We hardly have any connection to

What preceded our grandparents—

Not that our grandparents would speak of the killings

They committed, in wars and in peace

Or the “spoils of war” they “claimed.”

History is more a tool than a science,

More our artistic creation than 

Accurate observation,

A way of showing more than knowing,

Revealing what interests you more than

What actually occurred.

Because when you think you know something

About everything that has ever happened

You’re probably wrong.

Arriving

Walking up the stairs,

The same stairs I’ve hopped, skipped, and

Pondered over, most of the vacations of my life,

My mind flashed to the happy scenes of pre-marital bliss,

Those first co-vacations,

The occasions 

When photographs could not hide my joy,

My happiness, my

Gratitude—

Now bereft of

That source,

Who must be scattered far and wide even if self-contained,

Deep and vast and across dimensions,

As people of that caliber do not simply 

Vanish from this Earth,

Even if living subdued lives,

I know,

Her impact reverberates…

Now thinking of my late uncle,

Who barely would have made it to 28,

if not for a sudden eviction from our realm,

In the hands of my forevermore-scarred aunt,

Disappearing and appearing,

In the numbers of his death anniversary,

13/1,

The role number of my ex-wife when she was in school,

The number of test matches played by my favourite cricketer,

The hours and minutes spoken to my long-lost soul-friend,

When I first revealed my true self to another,

Who hit me with the shock of loss,

Forever numb,

Deaf and dumb,

When she chose to end her life…

Now sitting up in the bed,

That those dark stairs lead up to,

The room in which so much fun was had,

An idyllic childhood of monsoon summers

And dark moods pervading an otherwise

Beautiful life,

Filled with every privilege and experience one could ask for,

Debts impossible to pay back to parents,

For their long-suffering patience and 

Buoyancy of loving labor,

On we three kids’ behalf,

None the least for me,

And as I continue to live, 

Half-child, half-man,

Drawing spontaneously,

Letting these words flow out,

Thinking over and over and over,

Of bygone days,

Finding myself with the challenge of establishing

Myself

In this city,

Where we all suffer,

Though I suffer less still,

This City of Joy,

I embrace with open and patient arms,

Hoping for a prolonged hug with this unique civilisation,

Enough to keep me charged for another day,

Another year,

Another life,

Starting now.