April 2024 in India
It’s time we carefully consider whatever little (non-existent) power we may have as citizens of this country.
I often tend to bury my head into the earth, not unlike the ostrich. They say, when the cat closes its eyes, night falls — Fact. All this, I do to protect my space.
But every once in a while I emerge, observe the world around me, gather my bearings and snap back into that shell, quicker than I came out. Over the years, I find, the time between my surfacing and burying is shrinking (hm, I wonder why?). All you hermits, kermits, hibernators and tortoises, don’t you agree?
And so, in this newsletter, I thought I’d gather my thoughts a little about our real world.
India is heading into its 18th Lok Sabha elections this upcoming week and it’s time we carefully consider whatever little (non-existent) power we may have as citizens of this country.
I’ve made a list of few stories you could read to better inform yourself on the graveness of the situation we find ourselves in. Time and again we find ourselves amid a rock and a hard place. How to choose the lesser among the two evils? One definitely seems to be eviler than the other.
Sanatan Capitalism: How Economic Hardship and Hindutva Go Hand in Hand
The price that Umar Khalid is paying for dissenting in Modi’s India
Indira's Post-Emergency Was More Benign than Modi's Undeclared Emergency
Modi’s India replaces constitutional values with those of the RSS
I strangely miss the election reportage I did in 2019, going to smaller towns and villages to talk to people about their woes, failed promises and the expectations they have on the next government. I would sometimes trail a campaigner and this was fun too. I enjoyed the rush, the exhaustion and the satisfaction of it all. I made some of my best memories as a journalist especially during the 2019 election coverage.
When you’re a creative practitioner, it is hard to stay isolated and unaffected at all times. You can’t always shut out the world outside. This reminds me of Jane Hirshfield’s poem I open the window — “What I wanted was/ the siren, the thunder, the neighbour,/ the fireworks, the dog’s bark./Which of them didn’t matter?”
It all matters — the war, the climate emergency, the inequalities, — all of it matters. And all of it seeps into the work we do, influenced strongly by the times that we live in.
Like the running stitch, one must run both on the inside and the outside.
I’ll keep this one short but not ending it without sharing some of my favourite finds over the past week. I found these poems on Instagram and they immediately struck a chord with me. Routine, especially, felt like the poet was talking about me. (“I sit in the lobby of someone else's potential thinking it is my own/I go about my day convinced I am immortal.” — Ouch!!)
Apple Sonnet The French word for apple sounds a little Like poem. We hear poem, with our English ears. The fruit that sent Eve and her blaming man to ruin, and pain, and the wearing of socks. We hear a snake in the grass. We hear that it was actually, probably, a pomegranate, which is implicated in other stories of damnation, which is good for our hearts, which is a nice touch in our winter cocktails, which sparkles like rubies and stains like blood. What did I say? When French people say pomme, it means apple. And I want to write you a poem like that: A something you can live on when I’m gone. - Jacquelyn Bengfort
Routine Some days I get up to go for a run but instead just sit in spandex and write about the fog. Is the fog lifting or the trees rising? Who cares. Nature transfers her blood into the air. We are her lung cancer. Her trans fat. Her addiction. Some days I get up early to write but instead clean -- the great lie that I am doing something. The horrible way ketchup keeps, still bright; beer cans lined up on the porch railing. It is the end of summer. The insects are at their biggest. They bang and thrum against screens, maniacs, giving their last hurrah. I creep around like Nancy Drew with my hunch an no real proof. All things feel preordained, repeated. My body is numb. Without anticipation. I sit in the lobby of someone else's potential thinking it is my own. I go about my day convinced I am immortal. - Bianca Stone
Ash Ode
When I saw you ahead I ran two blocks
shouting your name then realizing it wasn’t
you but some alarmed pretender, I went on
running, shouting now into the sky,
continuing your fame and luster. Since I’ve
been incinerated, I’ve oft returned to this thought,
that all things loved are pursued and never caught,
even as you slept beside me you were flying off.
At least what’s never had can’t be lost, the sieve
of self stuck with just some larger chunks, jawbone,
wedding ring, a single repeated dream,
a lullaby in every elegy, descriptions
of the sea written in the desert, your broken
umbrella, me claiming I could fix it.
- Dean YoungFound gold —
“And I want to write you a poem like that:/A something you can live on when I’m gone.”
“that all things loved are pursued and never caught”
Also,
This cute wallet I wish I could buy for myself
This recipe to cucumber sushi (yumm!) that I’m going to make soon
This hilarious meme
And
these stories that I’m hoping to read on Sunday
Happy 20th Anniversary, Gmail. I’m Sorry I’m Leaving You.
Tradwives, stay-at-home girlfriends and the dream of feminine leisure
On Toni Morrison’s Rejection Letters
And oh! wishing you a happy new year (Chithirai Thirunal here in Tamil Nadu)
Until next time,
A
(PS: Not that anyone cares, but this is my fourth letter to you, sent in a row :))