Haldwani – two poems
By Rashme Sehgal
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The child is walking, walking through the snow,
Up to the mountain,
Soaked in blood,
No, the mountain remains pure,
It is the child who is soaked in blood,
Blood dripping from his father’s soiled kurta,
Blood dripping from the pine trees,
From the emasculated bodies of the men,
Shot down, felled, one after another,
Feet toppled backwards, returning from work,
Or were they on the street to buy provisions,
Or was it to buy some firewood
To light a pyre,
Blood dripping from the pine trees,
There is not enough firewood
To light funeral pyres of
The so many dead,
For the mountain stands bare,
Bereft of hope,
Dreams today are implemented by a firing squad.
The child is walking,
Walking up the mountain
Dripping blood that leaves a trail in the snow,
The father, bleeding, sobbing, follows him
Like a somnabulist.
**
Time will end
Some day,
May that day come soon,
To be poor and hungry,
A destitute,
Is to be alive
To watch
My son fade away,
Gasp, taking deep breadths
Before my eyes,
He is taking a solo flight
Skyward,
Before my eyes,
Or so Kabir said
But did he also say,
Dreams must end
On the very day that
Hope gets extinguished.
For I must pick up my flailing arms
My shivering body and move out
From the graveyard to the stormy street
To me met by the vacuous, hate-filled eyes
Of the police.
My son is taking a solo flight
Before my eyes,
Skyward.
(Rashme Sehgal is a senior independent journalist, writer and a poet)
