Half-past Stone Age

As the never-ending convoy,
moving at the speed of democracy,
rattles our insubstantial roads;
some passers-by cover their nose,
others close their car windows,
some others change their route,
some keep the possibility open
to cross or drive in between the ritual.
The rest of the people
gaze at their wristwatches
to confirm
the fact
it is still
half-past Stone Age here.

Perpetually.

“Everything is the colonizer’s Fault”*

We already have poets
who speak truth to power,
in various reputed literary magazines.
We already have our political heirs
who know how to stay relevant in the media.
We already have journalists
who are friends with people in high places,
in case they write something against them in the future.
We already have newspaper editors
who know how to beat politicians at golf.
We already have people in uniform
who know how to change their nationality
as they return home.
We already have government employees
who are oblivious to politics
in the first week of every month.

What we need, God
—if you are still up there?—is
some typical, rich,
handsome, high caste Kashmiri dictator
who empathizes with our material zest!
Someone who understands
our helpless need to be religious and
speaks Arabic like poetry.

*a quote from Andres Neuman’s book How to Travel without Seeing

As If

As if
we are
the beforehand fallen debris
of some colossal
seemingly imperishable desires.

As if
someone is searching
for something under this debris
—someone who’s not God
but acts like one.

As if
the debris could be
put together once again.

As if
we won’t be cleared
off the ground of our own bodies
just like levelling the old graveyard
with new soil.

As if
life has always been an order
within order.

As if
we believe their lies.

As if
we don’t know how to scribble
—in the face of imminent death—
Life in cursive writing.

As if…