Three poems by Humraaz
My Mother Calls With Her Worries
Smog has wrapped the city
like a fine wool shawl
when my mother calls to say
she hasn’t slept in days—
because of the news on TV
and our friend who is dying.
I know she is right;
these are terrible times,
and we have both always
struggled to calm
the warm flutter in the gut,
the sudden searing
behind the left eye.
I tell her I love her and not to worry:
Delhi’s roads are wide enough
for farmers and tractors
and all kinds of lovers—
we’ll plough under the wasteland,
plant wheat and white clover
*
Delhi Progressive Writers’ Association Conference
-Lodhi Garden, December, 2021
I was reading that story by Manto
about two old friends, now soldiers,
fighting each other in Kashmir,
and I was thinking about how
the distance between us
has grown, but also how
we sat on that bench today
in the smoky, fading sun–
we were talking about fascim
and our fathers,
but really about ourselves–
and how you said,
It’s tough because we all know
there’s only one way
any of our stories ever end.
I forgot to ask you about the last time
we saw Mangalesh Dabral,
or what you think
about Varavara Rao.
You told me you believe
in what you’ve written,
and anyway, most of the time
they don’t actually put poets in jail.
But sometimes they do,
and my friend if they do,
we will stand by you,
I promise we will.
*
In Front of the Chemist,
one man cuts the distanced queue
to buy a tube of toothpaste;
we shake our heads,
but in this heat,
who has the strength
to shout?
Some time later,
another man approaches,
and says in a shaking voice:
Please, I need two face
shields, please—
I must go to the hospital now.
We shuffle our feet and bow
our heads; for once,
we’re all glad to give way.
*
Note: The poems have been published with permission from the poet.
Bio: Humraaz is a poet from Delhi. He whispers poems about the dark times. He has been published in a few noted publications. You can find him on Instagram here and his website, here.
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