Many things have been said aloud
Within these sound proof walls
After every word, cheered the crowd
But no sound seeped through the halls.

If listened to by a complete stranger
These words were enough to enrage,
For every word spoke of instilling danger,
To those outside this gross cage.

The boys’ locker room is no longer secret,
The sound proof walls have broken it seems,
But those inside don’t deserve a clean chit
Not by any amount of not-all-men memes.

But let’s not pretend we didn’t know,
About the locker room at all,
It was only a matter of time, in status quo,
Before these walls were meant to fall.

The movies we watch, the songs we hear,
Are testament of the fact,
It’s not just ‘them’, but all of us peers,
That are participants in the act.

Although individuals make up society,
It’s society that an individual would ape
But did we really go wrong in entirety?
What led to the normalisation of rape?

I’m angry. I’m sad. I want to scream
At this dire state of things,
But I also want to hope and dream
Probably escape on some unicorns’ wings.

But problems aren’t solved by running away,
Of this much I am sure,
Check your actions and what you say,
Mentalities needs to change from their core.

The conditioning and structures we see,
Although pervasive, aren’t set in stone,
Support others and share your story,
In fighting this patriarchy, we’re not alone.

For everyone to fight we call,
So that equality and respect we bring,
But girls, we’ve already torn down the locker room walls,
Now we just have to break the glass ceiling.

Like threads woven together to make art
Criss-crossed thoughts intertwine
As we grope around in the dark to tie up the ends
Of the ongoing debate and the questions thrown at us
Stupefied, yet clear about what the art should look like

The clock keeps on ticking
There’s a fading light
As we inch closer to dawn
Our amateur hands slowly weave the narrative
Firmer, stronger and clearer.

The echoes of these actions resonate
And the threads pull in the whole world
Me too, you too want to contribute
And we lend a hand to the fallen artists
Weavers whose stories have been painted red

And we repaint.
Slowly, one thread at a time,
One question at a time
One answer at a time.
And the potpourri of colours, of styles, of rhythms
Add to the narrative
And make it more prominent

And this should give cause to celebrate
Not the fact that there exist fallen artists
But that there are now a thousand more hands to support them
And keep the art going
The threads of the debate have been picked up
Loose ends will be tied together
The red paint will lead to red jails
And as the sun rises, we shall see that time is indeed up.

The featured image of this post has been sourced from The Fearless Collective.

वो चिनगारी सरकारी थी,
जो आग बनी है सीने में।

जंगल से, दरिया से, घर से-
सबसे बेघर जब कर डाला,
रोटी की, बेटी-बहनों की-
चिन्ता में पागल कर डाला,
अब मौत भी महँगी लगती है-
हम शाद नहीं है जीने में।
वो चिनगारी सरकारी थी,
जो आग बनी है सीने में।

लोहा-कोयला तुम रखते हो,
साहू का घर भर देते हो-
जन-गण-मन हमको कहते हो,
हमको बेघर कर देते हो,
कड़वी तो ज़हर की है प्याली,
पर आदत सी है पीने में,
वो चिनगारी सरकारी थी,
जो आग बनी है सीने में।

किस दिन फिर कोयल बोलेगी,
नदिया की लहरें गाएँगी,
महुआ की गंध से हो पागल,
कब बस्ती जश्न मनाएगी?
कब इश्क़ आबाद पुनः होगा,
खेतों में गिरे पसीने में?
वो चिनगारी सरकारी थी,
जो आग बनी है सीने में।

On a dark BU highway, CLAT rank in my hand
Giant library tower , rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I hear of submission deadlines
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to look for lifelines.
There it hung on the noticeboard;
The list of placements was swell.
And I was thinking to myself,
“This could be Heaven or this could be Hell”
Then he kicked open the door and he showed me my cube
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say…

Welcome to the Laa School Life, macha.
Such a BT place (Such a BT place)
But there’s a saving grace.
Plenty of fun at the Hostel Himalaya
Any time of year (Any time of year)
It’s lit af here.

The system is fully twisted, it’s got some crazy demands.
It’s got a lot of shitty, shitty ploys, to bring you despair.
How they dance in the Acad quad, Trying to forget.
But they’ll always remember, and they’ll always regret.

So I called up the alumnus,
“This place is breaking my spine.”
He said, “Be the monster it wants you to be, then the rest will all be fine.”
And still those voices are calling from far away,
Wake you up in the middle of Torts class
Just to hear them say…

Welcome to the Laa School life, macha.
Such a BT place (Such a BT place)
Until you match its pace.
Then you’ll be livin’ it up at the Hostel Himalaya
What a nice surprise (what a nice surprise)
Can I live this life?

Results on the website,
That F by my name looks so nice.
I thought, “We are all just prisoners here, of our own device”
And in my roommate’s chambers,
They gathered for some scenes.
They had won it with skills and belief
But I just couldn’t take this grief.

Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the gate
I had to get that Uber fast
But the app just won’t book it.
“Relax, ” said the night man,
“We have blocked all these sites.
You can drop-out any time you like,
But you can never leave! ”

Welcome to the Laa School life, macha.
Such a BT place (Such a BT place)
Until you match its pace.
Then you’ll be livin’ it up at the Hostel Himalaya
What a nice surprise (what a nice surprise)
Can I live this life?

हर कदम थमती है धड़कन मेरी

हर कदम सहमति है हिम्मत मेरी

हर कदम मुकरती है किस्मत मेरी

हर कदम झपकती है पलके मेरी।

आम है मचलना मेरा इस सफर में

आम है मुकरना किस्मत का सफर में

सफर, जो होता है छोटा इन कदमो से

रास्ता जो बना है इन कदमो से।

ये रास्ता जो जोडें मेरे सफर को मेरी मंज़िल से

उस मंज़िल से, जिसके इंतज़ार में पूरा योवन बीता

जिसके दीदार ने मेरे सफर की थकान को तोडा

जिसके लिए हमने इन कदमो को थमने से रोका।।

What would say is your favourite part about being who you are and doing what you do? Because you are one of the few people who actually get to do what they love.

I love the surprising places that poetry takes me. And I love the surprising people that I get introduced to through poetry. There are so many people I’ve met because they found poetry in their lives and I found poetry in mine, and somehow our lives have just connected. And these are folks I would never have otherwise been able to find, and I love that.

We couldn’t help but notice how it’s a majority of women who’ve attended this workshop. We were wondering if that’s common across the board for the other workshops you’ve conducted or in the spoken word poetry scene in general?

That’s so interesting. In the States I think it’s actually more male-dominated. There’s more male spoken word poets or at least (laughs) they are a louder presence, shall we say. But I think I’ve found that in Asia, I mean it isn’t a blanket statement, there are a lot of different countries in Asia (laughs), but in my experience here I have found that there are a lot of women who respond to this art form because it’s an opportunity to write ourselves out of the margin and reclaim narratives that maybe haven’t been written for us or people who have tried to write for us, instead of letting us speak for ourselves. I think there is something particularly powerful about that. So I am not surprised that there are a lot of women here. I think it’s awesome.

So it’s not just because women are more angsty?

(Laughs) It could be that too, but I think even that is powerful, right? The fact that instead of sitting at home with those feelings you are attempting to put them into words and share them with other people is a powerful choice. No matter what their feelings are.

You’ve been to India a couple of times before, right? What’s your favourite part about it?

India is a big place. (laughs) This is my first time in Bangalore, though, which I’m really excited about. So what’s my favorite part? Does food count? (laughs) I could probably eat Indian food every single day and be happy for my whole life. But my answer would be the colours. There’s so much color in India, that there isn’t anywhere else. And I yearn for it when I leave, and as soon as I get back here I’m thrilled to find it again. Simple things right, like cars. In the States, the cars are only black and grey and dark blue and maybe, red. And here there is every color on the streets around me. Obviously women’s dresses and Saris. That colour is so powerful in terms of altering my mood, I think. So I love that.

What is one wish you have for the coming year? For yourself, for the world, for anything?

Those are different categories. For the world, I really hope that the US does not fuck up this elections. (laughs) We all hope. That’s a big hope. I hope that this event, the NYPS, is just the beginning and I hope that it exposes to a lot of young artists to this art form, who haven’t maybe found it yet. Or who have and didn’t know that there is a community that existed for them. And I hope that when I return next year, or the year after that, that this event is even bigger and stronger with more diversity of voices, which I think there is definitely room for.

If you have one line only, which you can share with someone who is starting out as a writer, or someone who wants to write, what would it be?

Don’t be afraid of writing bad poems. You have to write bad poems in order to figure out how to write better poems. The worse thing that people do is that they write one bad poem and they go, uh-oh, I guess I’m not good at this. I should just quit. It doesn’t work that way. I write bad poems every day. So don’t be afraid of that.

Words mask, pause,

falter.

On speech, rhyme, metaphor.

Gibberish, gibberish.

I want to be you.

The depths of your being,

Through shallow, vague, finite –

the utterance of your tongue.

Only a ghost, a shadow

of you.

An ocean of your being,

Through haze, maze, a fog

of doubt, vulnerability.

Only a trickle, a drop

of you.

You.

Tempered by language, fettered by its sanity

I cannot so, be you.

I could command, demand, implore.

I would falter, pause, stammer

on speech, on metaphor. Gibberish, gibberish.

I could not so, be you.

I could be you.

Every fibre of your being,

Nerve, muscle, sinew.

In gasp, caress, shiver.

I’d know. Know all

of you.

The ocean. Depths, trenches, crevices, shadows.

I would dive, I could flounder.

But I’d glide, rush, writhe

As I drown. Drown

in you.

I would be you.

Unfettered, unshackled, untempered

by prose, rhyme, meter.

In taste, sigh, tremor – my words

to you.

In this utterance of our being

You’d have, know, be me. And

I, you.

I’m done with all relationships –

commitment’s not for me.

“I love you” will not cross my lips,

and rings will make me flee.

But every once a while I find

my nether regions quake

a burning urge consumes my mind –

my hands begin to shake!

There is but one thing I can do

to make myself relax:

A boink! A doink! A shag! A screw!

An explosive climax!

Now, earlier, to find such things,

My gentlemanly self

would visit bars and skating rinks

and brothels for my health.

But just a day or two ago,

while browsing through my phone,

I found an app that made me “Whoa!” –

an app to help me bone.

This lovely find provided me

an endless stream of chicks.

Swipe left and right I did with glee,

upon provided pics.

I’ve done this now, for hours and hours –

I think I’ve found a catch.

Despite my sex-machine-like powers,

I haven’t got a match.

But just as I begin to fret,

my phone gives me a ping.

I needn’t give my hopes up yet,

a girl – this lovely thing –

has superliked my sexy mug

by swiping it up top.

And now, upon my Persian rug,

We’ll make her cherry pop.