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.