You’re calling me to the dreams of flight,
Losing the grip of reality in
Absurd dreams of mock salutes and chants as I crash into the twin pillars of faith and crown
Till there is rubble, and under the layers of
Dust and lives lost await
Stories of conspiracy theories.
The men, in their suits that were
Not meant to be crushed under rocks,
This is the inheritance of the dead
Who triggered a war.

The triggers that riddled a chest
Of a security guard as he gave, in his
Spur of bravery, the chance to free
Terrified hostages on a dark night
On the marble floors of Taj,
Your children remember you in tears and pride, while the rest of the world forgot,
This is their inheritance.

The whispers of war, of the head crushed outside my window before I was conceived,
Of the detailed purges of twenty year olds
Under the rule of a government,
The purge of the backbone of Bengal,
A generation that had dared to
Wish for less pain.
A generation born in theatres, spread from books into the immovable spirit of communism,
I am your inheritance, chanting at college
Doorsteps on scheduled test days,
Rebelling against anything,
Because we don’t know what to believe anymore
So we revel in our instability,
In the collapse of our futures.

The dim ideas of nationality, tattooed in a
Language we all share,
On the back of a neck resolute with
The yoke of an idea that is a lie.
The dragging of sentiments in the dirt, while some fight over numbers,
Some over legitimacy,
Some Google the issue and the rest,
The rest they are already in the grips of
The elusive azadi.
The children whose father’s are Schroedinger’s cats,
Dead or alive, disappeared-
This is your inheritance.

To the man beaten to death, for his
Mouth tasted of someone else’s religion,
The blood still cold on the pavement,
Our sacrosanct idols bleeding,
Their Quorans are bleeding,
Their bibles and crosses are leaking,
No longer wine, just blood.
Your God’s stared at mine,
While we fought each other to the grave,
The pagans laughing in delight,
Swallowed by flames and hate.
This, is your inheritance.

The worms slowly eating into the
Fifty closets shut forever, this world
Has already forgotten your names,
And the guns still live in your place,
All those under pulse lights,
Who loved different,
To the mother who gets messages in her nightmares,
This is your inheritance.

The girl was called nirbhaya.
Yes, she was, she didn’t scream
When they pushed a steel rod inside her,
Maybe she did,
Who knows, in her death, she is fearless.
The hundreds of girls raped in silence
While our court debated on the definition
Of Rape,
Every girl born on this soil, hiding behind
Walls of denatured fears,
This is Her story,
Her inheritance.

The stories I cannot recall,
The stories that lay, like stories not reality
Not as testimony to dead
Soldiers, lovers, and humans,
These forgotten sighs behind our
Ability to forget,
This is your inheritance.

The burden of remembrance,
This is our inheritance.


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