Sayan Aich pens verses in solidarity of the teachers and students of Jawaharlal Nehru University, India.
There is a tri- syllabic wind that blows,
And cries out,
Kash- Mi- Ri
Ve- Mu- La
Je- En-Yu
Ma- Ni-Pur
Mi-Zo-Ram
Se-Di-Tion
Pe-Ti-Tion
Ja-Dav-Pur.
The tri- colour lies scattered
In Black and White,
A case of simple mathematics.
Slap me with a charge my people,
Slap me with a ban,
If I don’t speak or love like you,
This is all you can.
The fingers point and the slogans ring,
The rivers cry out too,
I carry your flag like a shroud,
And wear your bullets too.
Come and teach me what it means,
To be loyal and be free,
The sun has set, the moon in shards,
My being cleft in three.
One for Kashmir, One for Manipur,
And the other thrown down south,
Your nation has stifled mine,
Forcing words in my mouth.
You teach me what I should say,
Tell me what I should do,
I wear sedition like a scarf,
And anti- national bullets too.
The Country to which i will return,
Will have saffron fields all over
The morning Azaan will be muted
The Fridays will be those,
Four days of the month
When blood will flow
To purge the country,
To which I’ll return.
The country to which I’ll return
Will have a single God,
One religion,
And one definition of love.
Rakesh and Prakash Can’t hold hands
Amina won’t love another Anand,
December 6th celebrated in over 330 towns,
The country to which I’ll return.
A wind is blowing and the spring showers kiss my soil,
And today many questions lie interred in my soil.
The night air is haunted with songs sung in Kashmir,
No more roses, but bullets grow in my soil.
Weave around me a shawl laden with twinkling stars,
Angels that have fallen, must find their graves in my soil.
The chains adorn my being, like jewels on a bride,
My feet stuck in mud, refuse to walk with my soil.
Some words don’t heal, like some tears never dry,
Your tears weep at night, the words buried in my soil.
History is a selfish child, all its toys and ploys,
Oh Zafar, you might know, it has hidden in your soil.
– Sayan Aich
