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.