Half burnt smoke
Half wet tears
Half lipped word
Half lived years!
The charred wood of my house
Cried unheard whispers
Who is to blame
When a looter is my keeper!
I eyed her breasts
My food has died
A death of drought
Cursed by civilization!
My mother runs for cover
The twinkle of my eyes
Once matched the gleam
Of her metal necklace!
The only bearing on her body
Is now as dull as my eyes faithless
She ran, tucking me in her tight embrace
Clutching one of her breast
I unlike her, surely knew my place!
The precious mineral beneath
This much-sought-after piece of land
I never could learn to wrest free our lives
From its strangling hand!
The smoke of my burning home
Is chocking the life out of me
Could I ever really grow into an Indian
Everyone claims to be ‘free’?
It would be not long
When the words will be forgotten
The ‘half’ identity is too heavy of a burden
It would be left here in this very forest to be rotten!
And that would be the end an era
And a culture-demise
Revolutionaries and ‘reformists’ both are working
For their own interests, only to seize the opportunity as a prize!
Violence is the only resort, everyone comes to
Half-ness of my tears seems doomed too!
(Note: I wrote this poem long ago, inspired from the book- Let’s Call Him Vasu by Shubhranshu Choudhary. It presents the actual events and experience of individuals influencing the dynamics as well as politics of Naxalite area fueled by communism ideals, leading to a scene of constant struggle. Tribal people are bearing the brunt end of the fight and struggle, lacking every necessity and holding their life at stake)