Haiku Politica: India

I. Summer afternoon,
a blackbird sings its heart out;
sirens wailing loud.

II. The television blares-
I sit there nauseous,
an ice pack on my head.

III. Fields of golden death;
paddy rots, the sickle rusts,
Trident stands erect.
IV. Farmer, will your tears
be enough, for when they own
all of the water?

V. Run Faroukh, run!
Run in circles, because
hate never ends.

VI. Mountain made of ice-
it trickles down in droplets
that hiss on parched rocks.

VII. Today we are starved,
tomorrow we will be dead;
we are fed just lies.

VIII. I rejoice for them-
the poets at the gallows;
but I fear for us.

IX. What choice do we have?
Conscience, conscience! I don’t want
no blood on my hands.

Atalant Nadkar spent his formative years in the nostalgia-driven bylanes of Kolkata, and majority of his adult life in the relentless, bustling metropolis, Mumbai. A frequent traveller and a minimal consumer, his work has previously appeared in Beetle Magazine and various other local journals. He is working on a poetry manuscript titled ‘Beat of the Times’, an untitled short-story collection, and a collection of indie-rock lyrics that he hopes to someday sing. His influences are rooted in philosophy, politics, spirituality and music. Read other articles by Atalant.