Night grief
Just one look
in bright sunlight:
shells of burnt out houses,
bodies strewn about
like leftover cigarette butts,
battered faces and vacant eyes,
overwhelming silence,
tells you this is the work
of insurgents from the hills.
They came looking for freedom
in a village so remote, the road
stops where the hills begin
when they burst out of the jungle
with guns blazing,
men, women and children wake,
most die not knowing how
they could hold somebody
else’s freedom captive.
A child comes forward,
half naked, eyes blighted by tears
wiping away snot, a mother in tow,
sari torn, a baby on her waist,
behind them, an old man
arm in a sling, holding his wife
wearing a sheet red with blood
breathing her last whisper.
Not faraway, at the edge of the forest,
a policeman stands guard
yawning, resting on his .303
to chase away the might of an insurgent army
armed with Kalashnikovs and grenade lancers
and jerrycans of blue kerosene (meant
for distribution to the poor) to light
matchstick houses.
They lit a thousand houses,
swathes of villages
where lonely folk toil for a daily meal
the police just behind like scared mice
never really catching up
a storm that refuses to die down
and not enough rain to wash away,
What remained:
shells of houses,
bodies burnt alive,
stiff in agony
under ashen-black coconut trees
and empty chicken houses,
stray mongrels looking lost
and cattle mowing grass
like last night
was a distant memory.
Subhakar Das writes from Guwahati, India, where the Brahmaputra "blesses or corrupts its faithful depending on its many moods." His work, mostly poetry and fiction, has appeared in various e-zines, anthologies, print magazines and newspapers.
Just one look
in bright sunlight:
shells of burnt out houses,
bodies strewn about
like leftover cigarette butts,
battered faces and vacant eyes,
overwhelming silence,
tells you this is the work
of insurgents from the hills.
They came looking for freedom
in a village so remote, the road
stops where the hills begin
when they burst out of the jungle
with guns blazing,
men, women and children wake,
most die not knowing how
they could hold somebody
else’s freedom captive.
A child comes forward,
half naked, eyes blighted by tears
wiping away snot, a mother in tow,
sari torn, a baby on her waist,
behind them, an old man
arm in a sling, holding his wife
wearing a sheet red with blood
breathing her last whisper.
Not faraway, at the edge of the forest,
a policeman stands guard
yawning, resting on his .303
to chase away the might of an insurgent army
armed with Kalashnikovs and grenade lancers
and jerrycans of blue kerosene (meant
for distribution to the poor) to light
matchstick houses.
They lit a thousand houses,
swathes of villages
where lonely folk toil for a daily meal
the police just behind like scared mice
never really catching up
a storm that refuses to die down
and not enough rain to wash away,
What remained:
shells of houses,
bodies burnt alive,
stiff in agony
under ashen-black coconut trees
and empty chicken houses,
stray mongrels looking lost
and cattle mowing grass
like last night
was a distant memory.
Subhakar Das writes from Guwahati, India, where the Brahmaputra "blesses or corrupts its faithful depending on its many moods." His work, mostly poetry and fiction, has appeared in various e-zines, anthologies, print magazines and newspapers.
