The Naked Face of Racism

The Naked Face of Racism …

I met some folks the other day,

and they spewed bile and hate,

to put it bluntly,

they had nothing but shit to say,

talkin’ about ‘Kaffirs’* with self-righteous hate,

vomiting forth on the imminent doom of the South African state,

Oh but I did try some old fashioned reason,

only to be barked down,

it must have been my socks, cos’ my socks you see,

they don’t fit in with the haute-couture of this springs’ season,

and so these pleasant, well-fed, well-clothed business folk kept on blabbering,

about how stupid and corrupt all ‘blacks’ are,

and all this and more said in tones sickly-sweet,

as they guzzled their Blue Label whisky neat,

still I tried to reason,

though in truth I do confess,

I was tempted to terminate the fascist shindig,

and say,

fuck you, you racist pig,

but alas I tried and tried in vain,

but I was left cold, empty, shaking with anger, and filled with a deep pain,

that after all we have been through as a still-healing nation,

we barely haven’t even left the train station,

and I thought of my heroes,

Walter Sisulu,
Oliver Tambo,
Nelson Mandela,
Bram Fischer,
Govan Mbeki,
Ahmed Kathrada,
Chris Hani,
Moses Kotane,
Chief Albert Luthuli,
Lillian Ngoyi,
Helen Joseph,
J.B Marks,

a few amongst so many, many more,

giants of our collective struggle for equality and freedom and justice for all,

just like Dr. King who dreamed a dream while standing proud, dignified, and tall.

And so I left at long last,

stunned, broken, and aghast,

at the raw face of naked racism that I came to see,

in truth I was shaken to my very core,

but,

but,

but let the racist fascists know this,

and they better know this well,

that we shall always be many, many more,

and we shall consign them to the trashcan of history where they belong,

because their hate and their racism,

can never, ever,

and will never, ever,

silence our unfinished song,

a song nourished by the blood of those who died for the internationalist ideal,

and that,

that is something even those hate-filled businessmen can never, ever steal!

*’Kaffir’ – a racially derogatory term used to refer to black Africans in Apartheid South Africa

“As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.” – Nelson Mandela

“No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.” – Nelson Mandela

meagre scribbles

broken wings, shattered,
hugging the frigid ground,

emotions scampering,
flitting between smiles and tears,

peaking crests, plunging into valleys,

of loss, of fear,
of future unclear,

of that,
of this,

often pain,

and,
sometimes,
sometimes,

a shard of,
bliss.

ode to my hometown, commonly known as yet another pompous scribble

ode to my hometown, commonly known as yet another pompous scribble

taste of gol-gappas,
drowning tongues,
in dreams of monsoon-marinated dilli,

of cycle-repair stalls,
sweet-lime soda hued shawls,

dtc at minto bridge stuck as always,
see how tragedy binds us still,
to the olden days,

nostalgic kisses, quivering lips brushing each other,
during stolen moments,
on friends’ fathers’ “loaned” vespas,

aur phir Diwali would announce its imminent arrival,
smog-filled galiyan, diyas alight in the pre-winter night,

and then, sheher ki roshni dazzled us all,
( not very acceptable, granted, in this eco-age )

and we danced into the chilly autumn night,
barely touching each other,

yet our souls,
hearts,

the sum of our desires,
our innocent yearning,

seemed sated at nights end,

and to that,
that feeling, hardly ever felt since:

contentment.

enoughness.

that,
keeps me dreaming these nostalgic,
spicy dreams,

of leather against willow,
setting fields,
the sight of middle-stump toppling,

memories etched,
engraved, tattoed into my being,

along with you,

my constant,
fellow traveller,

mere humsafar,

and though dilliwaalas are known to spin a yarn,

let’s leave it as it was,

meri dilli, meri jaan.

pompous scribble

feelings falling off,

like flakes,
                  off,
                        moulting skin,

                         shedding
                         detritus:

          moments past.

and now,
                they ask,

                                as to why,

                          trepidation accompanies hope, always.

simple:
                                    mirth,
vanishes,
                flees,

as do I,

the perennial overnighter.

🙂

there shall not be peace

there shall not be peace …

as hunger rumbles,
desolation stalks,

poverty numbs,
apathy dumbs,

there shall be no peace,

until hungry mouths are fed,
till poverty slithers away,

back into the coffers that prey,

the greedy upon the needy,

this is how it has always been,
is this how it shall always be …