A Descent
I will think of these tender times
when I write about this moment again
some years later perhaps or tomorrow
I will think of your gentle eyes when you
cooked rice while steam fogged your sight
on a never ending summer evening

I will think of our meeting and the meaning
of this bed sheet that you change sometimes.
I will think of the poems you mark to recite.
When I write about this moment again
I might think that you knew.
The numerous shirts that I borrow

still smell of your deodorant and Marlboro.
I would brew my own coffee on mornings
when the sun is bright and the sky is blue
I’ll write another poem for you with rhyming lines
I will dice the tomatoes like you, and think of inane
couplets and the red of your blood that would slide

from your forefinger to the thumb. I will fight
the urge to rip another band-aid. I will throw
one more page in the bin. To imagine your pain,
is to provoke a writer’s block. I will get to cleaning
when I think of your dusty cupboard. It makes me climb
on top of my own pile of clothes. I will think of you

with gentle care and leftover love to write clues
for whenever you return with your habitual fight.
We will host another treasure hunt. In the meantime
I will think of the hair that you shed, hair that will grow
again for me to oil. You will find me here, weaving
poem after poem for you. I will write in vain.

Outside this window, you will always find rain.
I will sit in the drizzle watching the ink split in two
Another summer will pass with its evenings
I will write this novel. I might stay through the twilight
to watch you come back into this tenderness. Tomorrow
I will call you perhaps. I will write the poem of my lifetime.

From Ramjas to Today and Tomorrow

choking barricades on a winter day
that February, Delhi was grey, chaotic
the long chain of students stretching from
the Vishwavidyalay metro station to
a place where dissent echoes loudly
our first handmade poster, our first protest

but my body already carried a memory of this protest
from a place unknown, another time, another day
so I screamed every slogan, each word, loudly
fumbling, crumbling in my mouth, chaotic
an anonymous bottle of cold water passed to
me. These events aren’t my own. I took them from

every protestestor, who has walked from
the comfort of red wombs to sites of protest
to shared memories of wronged folks, to
universities of crack downs, shootings, today
I walk this path for Ramjas in this chaotic
crowd of undone, beat up students who demand loudly

their unhindered voice reciting poetry, loudly.
Their gentle fury. Classrooms snatched from
them, again and again and yet again- each a chaotic
confrontation. Next time there will be a protest
and the time after that too. Every fight, every day,
from Jamia, to JNU, to AMU- so many to

choose from and since 2017 it has been blood to
blood, each attack faced with a bigger forces, loudly
chanting for justice. Our unity has not missed a day
to strike back with peace and honour. We have walked from
Shaheen Bagh to Jantar Mantar to wherever a protest
was called for. From Ramjas to everywhere, creating chaotic

anarchy through our pacifism. It looks ugly and chaotic
because the oppressors show no mercy and to
shove us in prisons as criminals for peaceful protests
is criminal. We will continue to scream louder, loudly
into unbothered ears but history knows. She takes from
us to write and document. Mark this year, this day.

We will return on the streets with chaotic, loud
slogans, poems, words of love to you. From
Ramjas to tomorrow’s protest. Set the day.