Dislodge this dreadful silence
that impends the sanguine screech of shrapnel…
For I am with you India…
wavering through the flames
and fistfuls of chilly powder
that stung the eye of the enemy
who knocked upon my minority…
My children suckle upon
the wasted breasts of secularism
and the blood of prayer caps,
Crosses and Bindis
seep into their blabbering lips…
And the bitter stenches of Marigolds
stretch from sea to sea
and from mountain to sea…
and the dead ashes from crematoriums
blanket the terrain
and cover the hollow foreheads
of the seekers of ethnicity…
Conviviality is a red spot.
Blood sucks.
And babies wail…
Give me back my jasmines if you can
Give me back my roots…
Give me alabaster trees that will shade me
from this glaring communal sun…
Give me back my mother
Give me back my brothers and my sisters, India!
Give me back my intellect…
I watch the rivers that partitioned you
drain and dry and flatten the land…
And I hear the oceans swell
And I smell the prismic fathoms
of my culture
that mingle and merge
the peculiar characters of the Bay of Bengal
and the Arabian Sea
into the smelting pot
of The Indian Ocean…
while the Himalayas weep
tears of joy
and season the waters with salt..
Reach India! Reach into those wayworn waters
and douse your saffron flames…
For you will still heal…
For I am with you…