'Cry, My Beloved Country'

Ever since events in Mumbai have come to their bloody conclusion, a lot has been written, a lot has been said. A lot more will be left unwritten and a lot more will be left unsaid. On what happened and on what should happen. On the venality of politicians, on the bravery of soldiers and on how the 'people' should take charge. But I am weak and feel myself unable to draw up a suitable or even an acceptably adequate response. I feel puny in the face of audacious belief…held by 12 men who came in boats believing they could change something. I search for strong ideas, something suitably tangible and audibly concrete to capture and sufficiently explain. But I am unable to. Maybe it is because I see how much has changed...and how little really has. And like the enfeebled always do, I hide behind words. It is not my intention to add to the cacophony that has already passed, but, as I always do in times of need, I seek succor in the gentle grace of poetry. The following is an extract from a piece written by someone I once knew long back. The writer will have to remain unnamed:

‘The sun arises- a disk of startling light,
Comforting darkness flees in hasty flight.
And now exposed lies this barren land,
It waits in fear for the rapists’ hand.

And soon enough starts the bloody rape,
By shadows unseen- no form, no shape.
A child killed there- another killed here,
The rape is on- I shed a tear.

The bombs blast- the flow of blood,
A trickle, a murmur, now a roaring flood.
The man who was killed on this unnamed road,
Was he carrying belief or duty’s heavy load?’