Blood

I dreamt, not long ago, of being in Iraq, living with those who want to rescue their land and their natural resources from being stolen by the US army. No amount of words could be enough for their valiance and honour. They told me in that dream that it is not immoral to fight in order to live, and to live one has got to need the resources that Mother Nature has provided for each one of us. Let America and the White World call them whatever they want; each one of them has not only the bravery but also the humanity of more than a hundred white folks put together. I know, for I have lived with them.

This poem is not ultimately for them, not for the Dark Man either, but for the earth. And for earth's victory one day, against those animals in white skin, claiming to be superior humans.


He wrapped the cloth just under his eyes, strapped on his polished belt,
He looked across at his friends and folks, his eyes saying how he felt,
He would be gone for days, or weeks or months; he might even be gone for good,
It was a hard moment for those dear to him, even though they all understood.

He gave me a gentle pat on my shoulder, as if to say "let's go",
Picked up his gun and his satchel bag, leaving back the albums though,
He never looked back at his people again, the goodbye was already said,
He murmured : "The nation is mine, so the duty is mine, to protect her from those who invade".

He said this line each time he went, to a war that could leave him dead,
"The nation is mine, so the duty is mine, to protect her from those who invade,
Come ye white man from some land unknown, let me see you brandish your sword and gun,
We'll keep fighting you, upon our word, till we breathe under this sun".

I have been with the Resistance for a full month now, I have known them in and out,
They are humans like us, they sleep like we do, they read, they laugh and they shout,
They are united as one, upon seeing what's happening, to their nation they so dearly love,
"Invaders", they say, "are a pack of wolves; but the Resistance comes straight from Above".

"The white wolves always found our nation attractive, we know after what he is,
If they tell you how proud they are, remember, it is for theft and loot like this,
Funny me", and he laughed, "I thought plunder and loot should mean shame,
Or is it that they were good folks once, Brother, and then something happened, and thus they became?"

You could see the innocence of the way he spoke, it reflects the innocence he was made of,
Despite the wars, or the trouble at their homes, despite all the goings that got rough,
They were all young men, each one of them, they ought to be in some college or school,
Which could have happened, but was not to be, courtesy - the invading white wolf.

"I agree we are terrorists Brother", he said, "but it's important we maintain this state of fear,
Robbery and loot demands a system of peace, stability is always very dear,
Control and security is why they want a government in Iraq, a safe passage through which the loot will go,
One we cannot allow and is why we create this mess; and trust me, it's something they very well know."

"Why fear a civil war Brother they do? Why this sudden love for those not of their kind?
A civil war will mean we will only kill ourselves, it's only our own blood we shall be leaving behind,
But such a war will mean unrest, will deny the safe passage their goods seek,
And that's their concern but not our lives at all, is why they fear a civil war more than do we."

"I wonder why they make us look like bandits, on their TV's, radios, papers and even in their shops,
If their public knew the good men we are, would it have meant that this plunder would stop?
Why then take the pains to tell those lies, when their public couldn't really care less?
For as long a white man lives, whether he is a ruler or a serf, Mother Earth will remain in mess."

He suddenly stopped the car and got out, ran quickly against a small roadside cliff,
Peeped a little through the edge on the left, with his body held against very stiff,
But as lithe as a cat did he then zipped open his bag, took out something I could not well see,
Three explosions ripped through that still countryside noon, almost deafening me.

"I ripped open their hearts", he said, "those bodies for days shall burn,
They acted as informers for the invading wolves, helping the loot with plenty in return,
So far so good, glad this was easy", I could note that this wasn't always the case,
He started the car and we were back on track, on our way to another meeting place.

I looked at him as he drove the car, with his left hand resting on his hips,
He saw me looking through the corner of his eye, and a little smile broke across his lips,
A month was how long our brotherhood had been, and I admired what I had learnt and knew,
That any man with a heart of honour, would be a part of the Resistance too.

Red

The slave reached down quickly to hold the plough, lest it fell onto the soil again,
The sharp edge of wood cut through his wrist, as he stifled a cry of pain,
The sun was hot, it was summer time there, and the plough was a heavy log of wood,
Yet hard though it was, he could not drop it down; an order he had long understood.

At one end of the field his master stood, his hands loose on his hips,
He was all in white from his head to toe, with a little smile across his lips,
It amused him always, as it did so now, seeing his slave not letting him know,
Pain or laughter it was all the same, a weakness, one could not show.

He could hear his father sing when he was a little boy, a song he seemed to love,
"The poor are meant to serve us folks, it's why they are sent from above,
They are lazy, stupid and useless, and note, will never hang their heads in shame,
Pain or laughter, it is all the same, a privilege, that does not become of them."

Thinking of that song he wasn't smiling anymore, he could see his father was not right,
He could see his slave Ramesh still in pains, though he held on with all his might,
He had been Ramesh's friend years back; stupid? He was far from that,
He worked hard with his books, was good with his brains, leaving the whole class a long way back.

Had it not been for the poor father he had, he could have gone a long way,
Might have gone to the cities and prospered, might have invited him over lunch someday,
Could even have made a name for himself, that boy, if only there was someone to pay,
He was eager to do that himself, his rich friend Nikhil, but his father came in their way.

"Stop shaming me my good son", he said, "and stop spoiling your useless friend,
Stop dreaming things they themselves never dream of, that money you shall not lend,
Let him be what he was born to be, our grass will suit his feet quite well,
Their service to us will do them good, might redeem their souls from hell".

"And please", he stopped short, "stop calling him by his name,
One who serves is as good as another, they are really all the same,
Have you seen how they reproduce at a rat-like pace, making villages where there was none before?
Why? If those rats started naming their kids, one couldn't separate them from us anymore.

He couldn't laugh as his dad had done, for he saw that his father for once was right,
There was really very little to separate him from Ramesh, except for the latter's despair and plight,
If anything there was plenty to separate Ramesh from him, there were plenty in him he could tell,
He was brighter and smarter, stronger and eager, facts they both knew very well.

He found it hard to see who could be more useless, himself or his poor slave,
Much of the village was owned by his father, the little he had was what he gave,
Not that his father was more useful either, he got those from the men who had come before,
He drank, slept, ate and talked; is that being useful more?

He wanted to talk to Ramesh that evening, it was years since they talked,
He sneaked from his house as soon as could, across the mud and earth he walked,
The villagers talked, they always did, "with whom is master angry tonight?"
But he walked on, through the mud and soil, knew that his way was right.

He called out "Ramesh" as he neared his house, could make it covered on top with hay,
He sat in front of him with his head held down, hardly knowing what should he say,
He felt his hand on his shoulder, and looked up, his eyes looked into his,
Master and slave, living worlds apart, and yet it had come to this.