For Dr. Martin Luther King Jr

Colours,
hues,
shades,
of difference,

mingling on a canvas.

Your dream became,

our shared vision,
our collective hope,

of black, and of white,
and of rainbows,

that merge,

flowing,
to a confluence,

of harmony,

within sight,
without despair,

within beating hearts,
without invisible walls,

as we pledge,
today,
and forever more,

to honour your dream,
and build on your sacrifice,

to shun narrow visions,
of divisive gloom.

Today,
we embrace,

all colours,
every hue,
and the countless shades,

of difference,

as we,

your torch-bearers,

plant the seeds,
of the flowers of peace,
of tolerance,
of justice.

And as we nourish,
those flowers,

we know,
we know,
we know,

that the flowers of peace,
of tolerance,
of equality,
of justice,

will, and must,

inevitability bloom

She’s Dead. Raped. Murdered

She died this morning,
her body losing its final battle.

She may have died a long time ago,

and as a man, I can say she died long back.

She died,

a little,
through every humiliation that was ever meted out to her,

from the clutches of hegemonic patriarchy,

camouflaged as culture.

From the snide comments,
about her dressing,

she died this morning,
and yet I hear not a soul confessing.

She’s Dead. Raped. Murdered.

And we the people pass the buck.

To those in power.

To the cops and the politicians and the bureaucrats and the lawmakers.

But we the people,
have sat silently,

for too long.

We the people,
have fostered gender discrimination,

in our homes,
our schools,
our places of worship.

We the people,
are culpable.

We the people are guilty,
of never looking inside,

to face the beast that within us men does so often lurk and hide.

She’s Dead. Raped. Murdered.

By those thuggish savages, yes,

but by our collective inaction,
over the centuries,

as we stood idly by,

and reaped the benefits,
of women, mothers, sisters, daughters, nieces,

being shoved down in religion’s name,
in the name of caste,
of culture,
of tradition.

She’s Dead. Raped. Murdered.

And we cannot avert our shameful eyes.

We are all culpable.

You may disagree but I’ll say it again and again and again.

And again.

I am culpable.

That is true.

We are culpable,

As are those thuggish savages,

those smiling businessman who buy flesh,

those gentle fathers who slip into their daughters beds at night,

those sickening uncles and cousins who molest 5 year olds, and 15 year olds.

Yes,
we are all culpable,

and we must feel shame.

Yes,
we are all culpable,

and we must,

we must all,

take the blame

The Blame Game

A lewd-stare here,
some groping there,
the vulgarity of cultural excuses,
the profaneness of looking the other way,

‘what was she wearing?’, they ask,

‘she asked for it’, they say.

The blame game continues,

films, tv, fashion,

the scape-goating is obscene,

how convenient to pass the blame,

as the abuse, harassment, cat-calls, and rape,

continues,
without any shame.

Now could we take a moment, and ask,

why don’t we ever,

take ‘culture’, ‘religion’, or ‘our people’ to task?

Well, its much easier,
to shovel blame elsewhere,

while conveniently ignoring,

religion, caste, culture, etc and etc and etc,

for if we are to point the finger of blame,

why not start at home?

but its so bloody convenient,

to spout platitudes,
to harrumph,
and to point our self-righteous fingers of blame,

here and there and everywhere,

but to question caste, religion, culture,

well, how many of us,
would even dare,

and until then,

why, we might as well,
like spectators,

continue to impotently stare