Art credit: @ottokim
(Change is constant, change is progress, change is revolution, change is evolution….Change is children forgetting to play in the gardens or even playgrounds.Change is, a mother forgetting to worry how dirty and messed up her child would be after play….change is so vast that I can hardly trap and concise them into my words. Still I have tried putting up a small vision of change through this short piece. Please read, enjoy and taste my writing. )
Tabs, Ps5 or 4, I hardly know…
Mobiles and Android I am well aware
with play store
And the range of apps, I can select, de-select,
With WiFi or Jio, it’s a lot easier
And play with my eyes stuck forever.
Gone are the days of the past
I am done with hurting my limbs or my arms
I can play and play for hours
Without running or getting tired
Immense pleasure is what I get
With my body, at full rest
My brain is working, I am well aware,
Continuing the flow of the game
O! Genius I have well played
Crossed so many levels.
To reach a point I so long desired
Sore eyes, vision blurred,
a few eye-drops
Round, square, minus or plus powered spectacles,
nice and trendy they go with my every clothes…..
Again do I play with my eyes stuck…
With only my two fingers
Clash of clans
or Subway surfers…….
- Sometimes it’s just that wind, a cold icy wind that freezes every single hair on your body, though it’s covered by a blanket of warm clothes and penetrates your skin to touch the bones. You feel the air, still you are happy. Why? Because you are reminded of your home, a home, a place where you were born, a place where you grew up, a place where even during summer, you feel the cold winter wind and what you need is warm woolen clothes to wrap up your skin.
- I remember our skin drying up as we are now made aware by the weather that Winter is on the way. We are ready to welcome her. Every home now make a space for room heaters, new technologies. Before it was hand made mud and tin hearth where coal would be lighted and fanned for hours. It’s embers warming the whole house…
Short note on Culture and Anarchy
Culture as perfection.
Click on the link below.
Where on earth am I safe? Where? Those eyes staring at me constantly as if I am walking naked. I think their mind has become a dress scanner. Such is their looks. Girls its high time we visit a smithy and construct an Iron Woman outfit or Is this the reason why many girls choose to wear men’s attire? Well may be.
We are little kids until our periods visits us. Our bodily transformation begins. Period days and the stomach aches that lasts for hours. Your breast begins to develop and gets perky and the initial phase of course is painful. We start getting conscious and we are taught to be careful.
While we are on this transformative phase, even the neighbourhood and the street eyes looks at us differently. Officially no more kids. Those sanitary napkins inside your mothers’ secret lockers,bras,now occupies your space.
When walking down the street. I heard for the first time the special sound, they made with their tongue. They whistled while carefully speculating our back. We now meet eve teasers and we are taught to ignore.
source: PinterestWhile walking down the usual path, the sound of a motorbike, two guys, one grabs my boobs and shooo the bike vanishes. The society remembers me.
I reject someone and the psychopath comes throws acid on my face, shooo the criminals vanishes. The society will never forget me.
Again this is not enough, one day they grabbed me; a hundred licentious eyes and hands their mouth salivating as they clenched my arms and thighs; their claws tearing my soft clothes and flesh, one by one they raped me, inserted foreign objects inside my vagina. My body bruised and blood dripping. But shooo the rapists vanishes. The country will never forget my name.
But does anyone remember any assualters,molesters, rapists? Their names? The place where they belong?
Yes! I am afraid of the dark, of those nocturnal eyes and hands ,of those ghastly beasts who haunts our bodies and enjoy our pain.Where on Earth are we safe? Very recently I received a message from an unknown person in Facebook asking me to indulge in a sex chat with him. Very instantly I had to block that person.
Even in the virtual world these dirty minds craves for sex.
A few months back. We were inside a three wheeled vehicle and an old man who was seated in front of us. He looked at us and after a while put his hand inside his pant. At first we thought may be he was uncomfortable but no he kept on repeating that a couple of times touching his private part and putting his fingers inside his mouth. That was gross and we were about to get out from the vehicle but fortunately he left .
Thousands of cyber crimes, rapes take place every single day and many cases are not even reported.
Sometimes it is outside your home and sometimes it is inside your home and neighbourhood. It is usually the victims who are blamed by the society. Her dress was short, she was alone, she walked during night, she had a bad character, she had many past relationships, may be she was a call girl, she was friendly and open with guys and so on.
Thousands fingers pointing towards the victim and the voice crying for help is just silenced. But the fault lies not in the girls or in her dress or in her character but in those shameless eyes that are naked and distorted ,that lacks good food and nutrition. Thereby effecting the entire mind making their body abnormal. If we are proud to be the citizens of a land that is rich with temples and cultures we have much more reason to be ashamed of because thousand minds are getting distorted in a peculiar way thus defaming the whole nation and the human civilisation.
These uninvited guests are present in every street corners and the very recent Bengaluru Molestation incident baffled the whole country. How long! How long! Will the girls have to live their life in fear? How long will they have to stay indoors? How long!
Our country India is blessed with rich cultures, the land of Gods and Goddesses. In every house we have these miniature Goddesses- Parvati,Laxmi,Saraswati,Durga,Kali and so many that we can hardly remember each names and every year we celebrate the festivals, Kali Puja, Sarasvati Puja (prayers offering to these special Goddesses or Mothers/Ma).
In spite of women being given a goddess figure why are we turned into a mere commodity and victimised in various parts of the world? Are we really the civilised people of this modern era? Do we live in a Blessed age or a Cursed one where filthy mind goes for another such crime and craves for more.Who are to blamed for such a heinous act? And in our small hilly areas as well where girls’ safety was ensured, here to the spark of such an evil act has already ignited. When will such a thing come to an end?
The picture below which I received in WhatsApp perfectly describes the present scenario.
We all have these questions- Are they people like you and us? Are they human? Are they really men of flesh and blood?
Were they born from a mother’s womb? Those boobs that they sexualise now. Were they not fed by their mothers’ breast? Were they not inside their mothers womb for nine months and were they not born out from a labour pain? Didn’t they cry for the first time as their heads came out of theirs mothers’ vagina,covered in her blood while that umbilical cord still connecting them? I doubt those people were never breast feeded by their mothers. They were never connected to Mothers’ because that female body is the first known part to every men and women when they first step into an alien world. And the same body they now sexualise and disrespect.
Yes, it is true that thinking separates us from the wild animal kingdom but this intelligence is of no use to those retarded evil minds. Its such a shame that even animals such as them do not exist. There is no such thing as Rape! in their world. Better is an animal than a human.
We have used our intelligence to such an extent that we are the most cultivated advanced being who are ruling the earth and the space. But when these ‘uninvited guests’ disturbs the peace and purity of an individual, we are in the nadir and not in the zenith of our civilisation.
I walked down the streets of my dear hometown, tired is she by now because time an again she is being used as an object for gambling. A few more paths and I came across the same old Wall, this time painted with a different colour. I felt a little bad because the wall looked handsome in its ancient yellow attire.
That place is special because it was the one who had permanently adopted her and it is the same place where I first saw her. And today the same street, the same good old wall knocked the door of my memory where she still breathes.
But this is not the only place to have reminded me about her. When I was doing my masters I came across this old woman, living in one of the streets of Jalpaiguri. We often saw her, mostly while coming back from the classes. She looked old, a little hunched back, thin and dressed in an old saffron saree. She had a mixture of dry grey and few black hair that was loosely made into a bun. Her dusky face,those small smiling bright eyes,dark lips with one teeth protruding out, everything , everything was strikingly similar that she just reminded me about my old friend. Once again the long forgotten friend came back before my eyes. But the one striking difference that I noticed between them(one who was past and had become a history and the other who was present and alive)was that the unkempt,shabby appearance of my old friend made her look more attractive than the divas on the street. Compared to her this new woman was surprisingly pretty clean and tidy . She usually carried a
Most of the time when we passed by her we would exchange glances and smiles. Like my old friend she too lived in the mercy of local food stalls, selling sweets, tea or momos. Everyday she lived the same day. Of course,we were curious to know where she slept and later we found that she used to spend her night inside an unused shop. Time passed so fast and we finally finished our masters programme. Me and my friend once made a promise to give her something with our pocket money. So when our last days in Jalpaiguri arrived we contributed whatever little amount we could and purchased a new saree for her. We gifted her our small love and care just the day before we left. I felt immense joy like her when she received it with a soft smile. At first she could not understand because she was not a regular beggar. She did not know begging, just like my old friend. We could not understand each other’s language but we felt something. The food stall owner who was providing her with dinner told her in bengali that we were gifting a new saree for her to wear. By gifting her I felt as if I was giving something to my old friend.
My ear is accustomed
Not to the hooting of the owl
Or loud chirping noises of the birds
But to the pleasant music
The roads and highway plays
Without dropping a single sweat
From sunrise to sunset,
From sunrise to sunset.
Accompanying and delighting
every person on its way
That tring- trings of the cycle,
The Vroom Vroom of the bikes
The honk – honk of the buses,
The different horn-tones of the cars that is preset
Like a mobile ringtone that vibrates on your way….
They are magical ,musical instruments
And music is what they play
Its pure music I say.
But in the evening
When their music fades
And silent prevails
It is the annoying sound
of crawling reptiles- hissing, insects -buzzing,
Their high pitched voice,
O,that disturbing ,irritating noise
That deeply hits my brain.
It digs my brain
It is not the view of the tall trees,
But the mountain high skyscrapers
That I enjoy.
This is me
More towards superficiality
More towards artificiality
My body so much latched to it
Locked and I have already lost the key…
As I go far, more far from nature
And come close, more close
Towards this ‘madding croud’
More close to this ‘mad-adding crowd’
Our Century old tattered hopes are in rags
Enchanted dreams still hangs on every green cliffs
Confused among the conspiracies that hatched without a sound
As the twenty four hour channel portrayed the scenario like in a daily soap
Where the writers head winds up like our hilly roads
Conjuring up stories after stories
Leaving the hills muted left only to talk in wispers, even when she is the queen
She is the imprisoned and forced to gulp venom
Darjeeling being poisened is growing purple bit a bit
The land has been raided once again
Sounds of boots, thuds,thuds,thudding every corner of the streets
Voilence making remedy to suppress the voice of the masses
Simple common citizens just asking a big hearted country for their rights which they swiftly denies
As the state sends forces after forces to shut the mouth of the million gorkha voices
That’s not enough
Terrorist! Who? We
They label you for free
Yes, for free
When your brothers are in borders
As country’s respected army men
But where is that respect?
Lost ? Gone,tossed aside, inside that dirty bin.
Dirty,Oh very dirty dictatorship prevails in the heated hilly air
O! Wait was Hitler born twice?
Banning internet was such a clever move
The rest is left dark, blank,that fear of revealing the truth.
But we the Gorkhas are spread worldwide
So suppressing a few will not stop our fight,our birth right.
We forgot when last we enjoyed the thunder, the lightening and the glistening monsoon rain
A sip of a coffee or the Darjeeling tea who is now quiet and in pains
Because what showered in the hills and gardens were rains of gunshots and thunders from rifles
Deafening the mountains, leaving her with bloody bloodstains,
Erasing the faces of the three Gorkha voices, martyred men as the soil drenched.
Drenched with tears from a mother, a father, a daughter, a son, a wife, a sister, or a brother, friends or the entire Gorkha generation.
This is what you wanted. Right?
When will your tyranny end?
When will we breathe the free air?
When will your rule end?
Yes the art of Colonisation painted the hills even after the coloniser’s end
Your wrath may have fell upon us
Like a meaningless curse
But do not worry
Weapons we do not carry
With only a thread and a needle
We will March forward in solidarity
Sewing and stitching broken wounds that are still fresh
Sewing all that you ripped apart
Your attack on language was indeed a blessing in disguise. Yes
I don’t wanna lose my mother
I don’t wanna cut her tongue
I don’t wanna stay forever dumb.
Together we stand and voice more clearly, our demands
Now do you hear?
The hills of Darjeeling have come alive
Echoing the Voices of its people
Without a land
Their never ending chorus
‘ Gorkhaland, Gorkhaland’
But even after many deaths
Our voice have risen- reborn and revitalised
As we sing that old song
“we want Gorkhaland
More louder,more fiercer than ever.
Hear my poem in the video below.