Smitha Sehgal writes two poems in solidarity with the women of Manipur, who have been targeted in the months-long ethnic violence in the state.
Blind and deaf,
My hands are smearedÂ
in blood.Â
I light the shuddering lampÂ
invoking scripturesÂ
for a mute God this morning.
Turning around silenceÂ
pleating my brazen lies,Â
I drape nine yards of cowardiceÂ
tucking in the first edge of fear
as my brethren are dragged from homes
stripped and walked,
herded as cattle along the weathered pathÂ
around my village. Ribs, thigh, haunches.
Their burning skin becomes mineÂ
as the opaque sun flickers on the blades of grass.
I draw a fishtailÂ
on the shadow of my coal-smeared honour
and nail the last cross on my tongueÂ
when they are led into fields amidstÂ
jeers and war cries.  Â
Silence is a snake on the frayed edges  Â
of shame when there is nothing more to be inkedÂ
upon this battlefield of my bruised body.
That afternoon
we walked in yellow rain,
afterward migrating to a rusted bench,
our disagreements 바카라“
a dead lizard in waiting,
I pick up a distant word
drained of colour.
The neat long folds of your clothes
filled your side of the almirah
바카라˜Can you ever find anything
when you need it?바카라™- you ask
No, I still cannot, decades later.
I cannot remember the hatred or angerÂ
I have lost my tongue in the alleywayÂ
of fear.
I have misplaced all the sweetness we gathered
in the godless templesÂ
All I remember is the moon in your eyes,
the green veins on your forehead,
the way you scooped a whole tomato
from the slow-cooked dal
your sarong flutteringÂ
under the fan,
on our shared clothesline,
the three times I went down
the alley in summer, for
each time milk would curdle
and I wanted to serve
the perfect custard.
This silence gnawing dark
as Manipur burns in our shared gardenÂ
of blighted tomatoes. Â