Once Upon 2.77 Acres

Once upon 2.77 acres of land, people discovered God. Some of the people called Him Rama. Some called Him Allah. God smiled at them all, because only He knew that He was in every name, and that He was beyond names.

Sometimes God tried to explain this to the people, but they could not understand. He tried to tell them through the leaves of trees, and through the songs of birds. He planted His truth in the eyes of every child, and He waited for the people to see it. But they would not look, and so they did not see.

The people, however, did love God. They were fascinated by Him. They adored and feared Him, and they chose beautiful ways to worship Him. They did not all choose the same way, of course, because God had long ago breathed into each of these people the gifts of self-expression and choice. So some of the people heard a hymn to God in the striking of a bell, and some heard it in the voice of a man calling them to prayer.

God heard them both. But in time, another sound started to drown out the hymns He loved. It was the sound of the people, quarreling among themselves as to whose god God was.

God bowed His head and wept. And the people looked up and said, “Ah, rain.”

For a time, they were distracted, and they began to speak of weather and soil and geography. But inevitably, they returned to their arguing. And this time they quarreled about whose land God’s land was.

“Mine,” said God, whispering the word through the rustle of leaves. But the people could not hear the word over the noise of their angers and their fears.

“Yours,” said God, scattering the word through the songs of birds. But the people were too busy gathering evidence to spare any time to find the word.

“Ours,” said God, shining the word through the eyes of children. But the people kept their eyes fixed, burning with hate, upon each other, and did not notice the word.

Nobody knows the exact day when He walked quietly away from those 2.77 acres of land, and nobody said goodbye, because nobody noticed He had left.

The third word is "justice".

Picture this:
JUSTICE FOR (insert your child's name here).

And then pray, pray, pray.
Because you never know.

Your god might be busy with something else
when your child needs him most.

Pray for street lights, or sanctuary,
or even for some serendipity.

But don't ask for justice,
because justice was just
a meaningless word
for that other child.

An awarding of that which is due.
That's what the dictionary said.

What is that to a dead child?
To the woman she will never grow up to be?

Justice can't restore the dead,
or return the lost years.

Justice is just for us,
the spectators, the survivors.

Justice makes us feel a bit better
about still being alive.

It can't reach down into the grave
and delight the broken little body lying there.

By Nazu Tonse

The second word is "outrage".

I meant to come, dressed in black, and stand at your side.

But then I remembered the last time, and the outpouring of anguish and rage, followed by .. nothing until the next time .. and I wondered if these protests are anything more than a Festival of Grief that revisits the nation every so often. Like sparklers, this outrage burns so bright, it makes hearts leap for a while with hope. But then it fizzles out, and we are back in the dark.

Why is there a time limit on this outrage? Is it only those men with the blood still fresh on their hands who deserve to hang? What of the rest?  The ones who've walked free for decades, or passed away peacefully without a blemish to their name? Are they excused because their victims managed to stay alive?

There aren't many protests for these children. Because these children kept quiet. Or were told to keep quiet. These children learnt that their honour meant nothing next to the family's. That they should forget about it, get over it, stop dwelling on it, forget the past, be positive and well it's not like he killed you. These children grew up and are among the men and women around you, and you would never know because they hide so well.

They hide from the the rapists of their childhood, the ones who've walked free for decades and probably always will. They hide from each other, certain that their own pain is unworthy in comparison to others'. And they hide from you - because they have seen that this outrage, this anguish pouring forth demanding castrations and lynchings for those men in the news, doesn't burn long or bright enough to illuminate those dark secrets of another time.

Ask yourself why. Look around you at friends and family. Could you take a stand and condemn someone you know, love, or respect? Or is your outrage a limited offer only, with an expiry date, directed at strangers, for "the others" that are not part of your particular "we"?

Only when your outrage is against every rapist, even if you find one in your own home, your own village, your own state, your own caste.

Only when your anguish is for every abused child:  the dead, the living, the ones still young, the ones long gone grey, the losers, the successes, the weirdos.

When you can do this, text me. I will come, dressed in black, to stand at your side.

The first word is "fragile".

Fragile is something of value.
Fragile must not be broken.

Like glass or crystal, I suppose,
though they can be replaced
without too much heartache.
My Swarovski sunglasses
would hurt a bit more.
My life, on my Samsung?
It would shatter me.

Which reminds me.
Children break too.

Some of us you can glue
back together
and we shall go on.

Distorted, disfigured, damaged forever,
a bit lopsided but still - alive.
Never as alive as we might have been,
but at least, not dead
(only sometimes,
some of us wish we were),
and so we go on.

We may even come to see
our shattered mess of a childhood as a mosaic,
and find beauty in it,
and then find a way
to share that beauty with the rest of you.

But
sometimes the pieces can't be fixed back together.

Because no one saw.
Or someone looked and chose not to see.
Or looked then merely looked away.

Or perhaps we just looked too late.
Too late to do anything
but light a candle
and shed some tears,
and rage - in sincere pain - at the injustice of it all.

We rage and we grieve,
and our horror is true.
We rage and we grieve,
but that is all we do.

Just like the last time.

I did so hope,
as we gathered together her shards
to toss them in our bottomless pit of unlearned lessons,
that our hands bled,
because her blood was already on our hands.

Where did our dignity go?

Where did our dignity go?

I saw it once in an Englishman’s movie, so it must be true

that once we were noble and driven.

Perhaps it is hidden under a lump of complacence

rotting on our streets with the garbage

your maid threw there this morning
so that your house could start the day clean.

Perhaps it made it down the rubble that we call a pavement,

hesitating on the corner, too scared to cross

like the old man waiting for someone to slow down

and give him enough time to hobble over to the other side of the road.

Perhaps the price was too high

and it couldn’t pay, so it couldn’t get admission.

Perhaps it was the wrong caste, or no caste at all,
or perhaps it came barefoot,

and a young mother told it to get off the swings

that are meant for better-dressed children.

Perhaps it lost hope and drank itself into oblivion

like the middle-aged daily-wager passed out on the median

under a statue of Dr Ambedkar.

Perhaps it is low on a to-do list

and will always be set aside for tomorrow.

Perhaps it was a New Year’s resolution,

and we all know what happens to them.

Perhaps it is asleep,
or pretending to be asleep,

safe under the covers
so that the monsters cannot come out to get it.

Perhaps it does not know its own potential

like a woman kept indoors for her own safety.

Perhaps it cannot survive on its own,

like a child who needs a caring parent.

Perhaps the parent is us.

Perhaps it died, but 

we are a nation fond of reincarnation, so

perhaps it is wombed in our skulls,

waiting to be born.

By Nazu Tonse

I saw Gandhiji yesterday.

I saw Gandhiji yesterday.

He was tall. He wore torn jeans.

He was dressed for office, and over his buttoned-up cuffs a steel kada gleamed at his wrist.

His bangles were red, and his bindi was blue, and the Lion King roared on his t-shirt.

He was in hijab, and he had just come from the temple, I could tell:  his tika was fresh.

He had a bright yellow turban, a white topi, and white hair in a neat bun.

He was clean-shaven, and had a sharp goatee, and glasses - but not those round ones. He was just about eight years old, and well over eighty.

He was wrapped up against the bitter cold, and stood sweating in the sun.

He carried a rose, he carried a sign, he carried our hope and dignity and constitution.

Every time I looked, there he stood, at Town Hall and Azad Maidan and Shaheen Bagh, and he looked back at me and smiled. Smiled like he knew me, like he recognised me, although we had never met before.

When I went home, I discovered why.

I bent at the tap to wash the dust off my face, and when I straightened up, there he was again in the mirror, still smiling at me.

I saw Gandhiji yesterday.

I slept better last night, knowing he's around.

Rabindranath Revisited

Where minorities fear

and farmers hang high

Where criminals run free, and sometimes for election

Where our land has been stripped and poisoned

and then fertilised with the blood of little girls

Where lies are so loud

they muffle the truth

Where a tired hungry child

stretches its arm towards an air-conditioned car at the traffic light

Where the clear stream of reason

Is clogged with the bullet-ridden corpses of those who dared

to speak up against dead habit

Where minds are held tight by theologies and mythologies

that divide one nation into us and them

Out of this hell of hypocrisy, my People,

let our country awake.

By Nazu Tonse