But women’s day,
Women celebrating it,
Talking of their rights,
Their freedoms,
Without women,
Can we think of
Our existence?
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They do quawwallis
highly pitched orWith the falling accentDancingly, jollilyOn the stage,Do shayarisLyrical poetryIn a sing-song toneAddressed to love and beautyand the sense of wonder and astonishment,Write ghazalsThe slow-moving reminiscentPoetry in couplets and rhyming,But why are they conservativeAnd bigoted,I think?
Have you got,
Penetrating deepAnd I getting arrow-struck,Just say to,I love you,I love you!
Was he a pundit,
An American punditOr an Indian pundit,A Brahmin American,A poetOf the Over Soul, the Over Mind?A transcendentalist,An American scholarExtraordinary.
Have you seen Mother,
And then to me,How is Mother,Vaishno Devi?Have a darshan of HersFor onceAnd say you it,How is Mother,The Mother of the hills,The Goddess of lions?When the hills were impregnable,How did,How did the sadhakas and priests,How did the devotees?Many would have dared not go forA darshan of Paharonwalli, Sherawalli.How the lions and tigers would growledAnd roaredAnd how…
A young maiden
Taking a a selfie of hers.Gender, class and society.
With festoons, banners and graffiti,
Flags and balloons
And women as participants going,
Taking part in the rally,
Women from around the lobe
Talking of their rights,
Their liberties.
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Friend,
Racism,Anti-racism dramaContinue?Friend,Who areActors, producersAnd directorsOf this drama?
They too sing the song of Rama
They too are the singers of Rama,Hare Rama, Hare Krishna,But in whispers with full devotionSing they it soulfully, so heartfullyI mean the distressed soul; sHelpless and hopeless in life.
Why do you call them
Mohajirs,Who are theyAnd even if are,Why did they,For what chimeraAnd utopia?They are the immigrants,The migrantsFrom the different parts of IndiaTo PakistanSpeaking different dialectsOf their own,The Mahajirs or Mohajirs.They too are men,Are menBut migrated from immigrantsWho went awayLeaving their places,But cannot,Cannot denied rightsThough may be refugees, displaced people.
Time, your bulldozer
History’s Haunted Houses.
A Maharashtrian Bene-Israeli,
Describing India as an alien insiderThough living in hereJust as the minorities.A poet of Bombay and its cityspace,The metropolitan not, the mega city,Its urban thought, culture and life,He is a good boyOf the goodbye party, the mrriage party, the tea party,Writing about the honeymoon,Handshake, ta-ta, bye-bye, thank you,Indian poverty and platforms.
There was a time
After seeing love scenes,How do they fall in love?Love in the cinema hall,The show to start,The curtain drawn overAnd the reel to start.Some whistling in delight,Specially the third class-sitting men,Just before the screen,As for seeing the heroine.The hero and the heroine will dance,Will eye, fall in love at first sight,Oh, marvellous to hear it,Love at…