Wo
The clouds hung heavy, as if in mourning, grieving the death of what people once called democracy. 'We' was stripped of the Constitution of India, rinsed away by an authoritarianism that now stands pacified and legitimised by the silence of raised hands, hands that no longer resist but consent, that applaud obedience and mistake submission for stability. Democracy did not vanish in a single moment; it was slowly edited out, reduced to ceremony and slogan, until its absence became routine and its betrayal ordinary.
Outlook took a deep dive in the language of Poetry with its 'Poetry as evidence Issue' in which it presented a selection of poems and verses that serve as evidence of our bleak times and lives. the poetries featred voice from every region— North East, Kashmir and every issue — Caste, Womanhood, LGBTQ.
In such a moment, poetry cannot afford just softness. It cannot afford beauty that refuses accountability. Poetry becomes a record when institutions fail. When power demands silence, political poetry insists on remembering and speaking anyway. Like Varavara Rao, incarcerated for Bhima Koregaon. poetry endures even behind bars. It survives because resistance, once written, cannot be jailed.
Cutting through the silence of the shore,
carrying a deluge of protest,
the revolution will arrive
wearing bindis, bangles, burqas, hijabs.
Sometimes as Gauri’s voice,
sometimes as the beginning of Savitri’s dreams,
sometimes as Fatima’s shield,
sometimes as a mother’s beloved son.
Carrying in its chest
these fearless emotions,
the revolution will arrive
wearing bindis, bangles, burqas, hijabs.
Sometimes as an evening in Shaheen Bagh,
sometimes as the story of Jamia,
sometimes as the people of Aligarh,
sometimes as the title of Faiz’s poems,
to settle every account
of your cruelty and oppression.
The revolution will arrive
wearing bindis, bangles, burqas, hijabs.
In stone-hearted cities, becoming the beloved’s face,
yellowed leaves will bloom as fires of chinar.
It will rebel, claiming its rightful due,
it will change the age, becoming the speed of time itself.
Sometimes it will turn into the rhythm of a dafli,
sometimes into love, sometimes into a rose.
The revolution will arrive
wearing bindis, bangles, burqas, hijabs.
You unleash bitterness upon the age,
carrying Savarkar’s message.
It will walk scattering flowers,
carrying Ambedkar’s Constitution.
A falcon-human will demand an account
of your humiliation.
You will turn to dust,
bearing Hitler’s end.
It will tear the veil from your false pride,
it will deliver justice and reckon violence.
The revolution will arrive
wearing bindis, bangles, burqas, hijabs.
Nabiya Khan — poet, researcher, activist
When you can see
that the leaves on the trees before you
have already fallen,
their branches growing thinner
in wait of flowers,
yet your newspaper declares
that spring has arrived—
and the thought strikes you
that this is a lie,
and that speaking is necessary,
and the moment you think this,
a courtroom rises around your mind,
a trial is convened,
and your mind is interrogated—
which part of you dared to think
that you could call wrong, wrong?
And a verdict is announced:
that part must be cut away,
the rest of the mind stitched back.
When clenching your fist makes you feel
handcuffs tightening around your wrist,
know this:
you have returned to Galileo’s time.
When bloodstains cling to streets and walls,
and even sunlight, after striking them,
hesitates to carry their reflections
to your eyes—
when corpses lie in your lanes,
and even the wind trembles
at the thought of carrying
their stench to your nose,
that too is Galileo’s time.
A time when courts ask you
why, when a human was being called a termite,
you insisted on calling them human.
How did you decide
that some humans cannot be termites?
How did you declare
all humans equal?
That is Galileo’s time.
And everyone placed under surveillance,
standing trial for this,
is Galileo.
Because this is no different
from putting someone on trial
and asking—
how did you dare say
that the world does not revolve around us,
but that we revolve around the sun?
It is the same as calling air, air,
water, water,
fire, fire,
tree, tree,
river, river,
sea, sea—
and being imprisoned for it.
“All humans are equal”
is a truth as simple and natural
as this:
that not we, but the sun,
stands at the centre of our world.
And I will accept, one day,
that opposing the reduction of humans to termites is wrong
on the day the sun and all the planets
begin to revolve around us.
That day,
I will agree
that Galileo was wrong.
Kaushik Raj— freelance journalist and poet
Come, let us speak in voices like flames,
come, let us protect the Constitution of this land.
Never was politics driven by love for the nation—
come, let us lay this lie to rest in its grave.
Let us carve a path from Bismil’s gaze,
come, let us awaken Ashfaque from the margins.
Those seated in power have fallen into delusion,
come, let us explain the meaning of this delusion to them.
The ruler is intent on erasing the power of the people,
come, let us strengthen the people’s power.
The body and youth once offered at the gallows—
come, let us repay Bhagat Singh’s debt.
They were ready to leave,
but our ancestors did not abandon this land—
come, let us tell why.
My ruler is bent on building prisons,
come, let us bring down the prison walls.
Better than bearing centuries of punishment
is to erase the sins of a few moments—
come.
The flag that is tricolour is my only truth;
come, let us bow down the flag of a single colour.
Sadiq, you too had made a promise to this land—
now is the time to keep that promise.
Come.
Taikhum Sadiq— Writer and poet
House-hunting in Mumbai.
In the first few minutes itself
they stress your last names,
make you pronounce them
like a dried apricot falling to the ground.
You need yours to land in the right list,
hitting with a pleasant thud
acceptable to their ears.
“This is the spacious club-house,
fully equipped, all state-of-the-art facilities.
Relax here after a long day
being tossed around in the city.
We understand your weariness -
our spas await.
It’s a sprawling property:
maximum super built-up, ample parking.
On the 55th floor, the infinity pool.
Here you can wash away all the dust and grime,
that dirty scent too, from the people on the streets.
Let go. Swim. Breathe.
Contemplate, ponder - if you’re the artistic type.
From here you command the entire view of Mumbai:
the shimmering Worli sea-face
and right across, the Queen's necklace.
Don’t fret about those industries in the distance
the smoke doesn’t reach us.
Every flat follows perfect Vaastu.
We offer specially tailored yoga, meditation masterclasses.
We enrich heart, body, and mind.
Those slums? Labour camps.
And those in the distance are ‘their areas’ -
the Muslims and Dalits.
Don’t worry, it will all be gone soon.
New exciting projects coming up there too,
if you’re willing to stretch the budget a bit
we could get you a sprawling space under ‘Redevelopment’.
Rates will climb even higher near the abandoned mills.
“Arre niklo bahar!
Woh wala lift hai tum logon ko, ye nahi.
Samajhta nahi kya??
Entry bandh kardenge!
Kitni baar bolne ka??”
If you see these people using this lift,
please tell them off.
The who’s who of Mumbai reside here.
We won’t let our patrons’ living experience be tarnished.
We take your holistic living very seriously.
Security is unbreachable - our dedicated app ensures it.
You’ll also enjoy full access
to exclusive parties, the sports bar,
grass and clay courts inspired by Wimbledon.
Parks on three levels -
perfect for children and senior citizens.
For your cute shih tzu or lovely husky,
temperature-regulated waiting lounges.
Your pets are our family too.
We strictly don’t allow any ‘servants’ on the swings.
I see you still look a bit concerned.
Don’t worry - it’s not all Gujaratis, Marwaris, Punjabis, Sindhis.
We also have a few Maharashtrian families.
The Kulkarnis secured a brilliant deal last month;
the Bhagwats move in next week.
It’s an enriching, diverse milieu.
In our community space
we grandly celebrate every festival.
We offer all this and more,
but the best part I am yet to share.
Lean in closer - lend me your ear.
Our builder and developer are
among the most thoughtful people in the business,
the most Sattvic.
As per our strict policy:
you will find no Muslims.
In Mumbai everyone struggles so much
you deserve value for your time, the leisure of true luxury.
We take your indulgence very seriously.
This is what we provide:
not just houses, but homes engineered with heart.
Our motto, ‘Vasudev Kutumbkam’, sets us a class apart.
Don’t think of this as a sales tactic,
but do take a call soon.
We can cut you a brilliant deal.
Just let us know -
how much in black,
and how much in white.
Dr. Abhijit Shahaji Khandkar— pathologist and Ambedkarite-Buddhist poet
Behind one forty-four,
two people are hiding,
and before them stand millions—
holding proof of being alive,
that is, proof
of sunlight carrying its own rays,
of being selectively chosen.
This fire of whispers that still burns—
over it hangs a curtain of lies.
And spread across the nation
is this torn curtain of modesty,
this violated veil.
We read the meanings of winds from the moon,
how could we not read the evidence
of saffron staining your character?
Every illegitimate wound
bears your khaki mark.
You may decree whatever you wish—
even if one hundred and forty-four
hide behind one hundred and forty-four crore,
twist words,
leave behind the fragrance of withered buds
in lanes designed to mislead,
turn into storms on cold nights,
break into our homes,
lift us from our own rows of mourning
and sit there yourself at our funerals,
rename our dead
and present them as scenes of your martyrdom,
write messages on the walls of our houses,
declare us unworthy
of even a few bricks.
We have laid the bricks of our homes
with our own blood.
If you do not hear this,
then do not.
We have heard enough.
Your command is clear—
faith must now be hatred.
Behind one hundred and forty-four
two people hide,
and before them stand millions,
holding proof of being alive.
There are children, there are women,
standing before the ocean
with the thirst of a single drop.
This is the moment
for the waves to feel ashamed.
And those two hiding behind one hundred and forty-four
are demanding proof from them—
a mark on paper.
Behind one hundred and forty-four hide those two—
let them perform their duty, even briefly.
Let them hear our silence, our screams,
our love,
the grammar of our protests.
Let them see,
let them record.
Because someone is watching from the sky,
and will rain down a message
in the language of storms—
to become exactly like them.
And those millions standing in front
will one day become the evidence
that those two were nothing
more than a footnote.
Aseem Sundan—multilingual poet and writer
