I do not know if using the R-word,

I will stay alive in Bangladesh;

Life over death the easy choice,

Caution preferred when possible;

Self-censorship for survival, sensible?

I am ashamed nonetheless.

Pen mightier than sword

They say, they greatly pontificate;

Should I take their word for it?

Paper-cuts hurt,

They know from experience –

Convinced, no more shall I prevaricate.

Arguments confidently offered,

I think, therefore I articulate!

My undeniable rights

I assert, I celebrate!

Venture into the R-word I do

As a self-proclaimed Roy or Bruno.

Most profound, the R-word:

Religion, rationality,

Better still, reason!

The sweet embrace of the ultimate freedom

Before succumbing to lamentable martyrdom,

Except, they will say it was treason.

A car, a hopeful meanderer,

Static in perpetual motion, an equilibrium

Unwanted, undesired, but

The only inevitable.

Inside, the air is conditioned, cool –

Outside, an almighty inferno.

The temple, once hallowed, now erring, ablaze,

The slum, once homes, now ablaze,

The bus, a promise of transference, ablaze,

The rickshaw, a livelihood, ablaze,

The flesh, once human, destitute, desperate, despicable,

Once alive, now consumed by the blaze.

Inside the car, aglow with

Health and vivacity,

Wealth and virility;

Indubitably preponderant, awash with

The only green that matters,

An infallible deceit that flatters.

Outside, a macabre imponderable,

Inside, insulated, pondering the superficial.

Digital clock ensconced in leather dashboard

Resets from fifty-nine to zero –

Irked inhale, a haughty exhale,

No motion, the count begins again.

What is there left to say?

What metaphor or cliché

will I choose to capture this moment perfectly?

Perfection is the standard when

crimson flows from split skin agape,

clots black on tattered clothes

torn once more, stripped naked

broken bones protruding,

poking through split skin agape,

ligament dangling from the joint

smashed, detritus impregnating

the flesh dangling from the ligament

torn, hanging folds of split skin agape,

torn open, a knife, a machete, a bullet

piercing skin, shredding flesh, breaking bone,

breaking body, breaking spirit, breaking.

Perfection is the standard to

force the traitor tyrant queen to

listen, to make her bend the knee to

the dancing Abu Sayeed –

he fell before she did, the Fool who

knew too much, whom humanity knew;

fell his comrades by the dozen too

and now, what is there left to say?

Children, beaten, battered, broken,

innocence lost, lost hope, lost faith,

children, beaten, bludgeoned, butchered

not for the first time nor the last, on their broken

bones, broken bodies, broken spirits, broken

this kingdom, built, nurtured with cherry red water

and bloodcurdling cries of children, infants,

Beaten younger, battered, younger, broken.

What is there left to say?

What metaphor or cliché

when the dissenter is shamed as the traitor

and the traitor wears the crown, shameless?

Words, hollow words, hollow rotting bones

broken yesterday, piles of fresh, juicy bones

broken today on top, piles and piles of bones

born today, broken tomorrow, building Babel

when once Babylon was possible –

they fell, the broken, blood-stained bones.

What is there left to say

when words, many, meagre, meaningless,

could not prevent the beating,

the breaking of children, already broken,

broken again and again, again broken?

What is there left to say

when words, many, more, meaningless,

could not prevent the breaking of this land

already broken, broken again, again broken?

What is there left to say?

They found Jimmy Hoffa,

Halfway around the world, in Bangladesh;

White saviour dispatched to stop a

Proud civilisation from becoming a mess.

Magically reappeared, off to his address –

He was put in a CNG, or on a bus,

Maybe on a truck loaded with fish?

At least he was not sleeping with them!

Not enough formalin in all of Bangladesh

To bring a man back from the dead.

Home, bed, Jimmy boy snores;

Once awake he does not speak any more.

Speculation about moustachioed men

In uniform having taken him away –

Enforced disappearance, held in torture den

Where he prayed not to become prey;

Neither confirmed nor denied

Since by the golden law of silence he does abide.

Curiosity wanes, the whispers die,

No more interest to find the truth in the lie.

From little Britain to the walled US

People disappear in the tens –

Factually speaking, a daily occurrence;

Price of development, mark of progress,

Be proud that it is happening in Bangladesh!

The patriotic duty of every citizen

Is to celebrate without asking any questions.

Respect and replicate Jimmy's silence.

In due course they all reappear, dead or alive,

Give it time, your turn too will arrive.

Plucked nubile water lily, dripping drying

River’s last drops dredged from the riverbed,

A drip, a drop, drip-drip drops, crying

A godless, solemn last prayer, lily water shed

Wilting, last teardrops of sweet, sweet river

Water shed, wither flower, wither life, wither.

Plucked strings of a sultry guitar haunted by

The last hand to play a major chord, a minor key,

God’s six veins caressed into its last sigh,

Speaking ancient wisdom, a silent hymn to be

Echoing out of the hollowed wooden curves, four by four,

The immortal drifting to the mortal, soaring, four by four.

It was a song about water lilies, a forgotten song

About the river overflowing whence they belong;

Of the monsoon rain feeding the riverbed,

Of all that once was, of yesterday now dead.

The water lily, the river, the hand that caressed

Long gone. All that remains is the song.

Four by four into the ether,

In search of ears to hear,

To listen, to feel, to belong,

A constant crescendo again and again,

Beginning to end, life, again and again –

Play the song, the last song.

Home.

I am tired and I want to go home.

I want to be cocooned in the folds

Of my blanket, on my bed within the four

Walls of my own, my sanctuary, my room.

I want to speak softly to my kin who holds

Me tight, vanquishing sorrow forevermore.

I want to be a comfort to my neighbour,

To stare into my kin’s eyes, see tomorrow,

Smile and, as my lips part, say that all is well;

I want to tell my friend to fear no more,

But truth says from it I can no longer borrow –

It has called in its debt, told me to say farewell

To my home.

Truth is white, dressed in white, atop

A pale white horse, a cross behind him,

Rifle in one arm, star-adorned flag in another,

And he says I need to go home.

He says if I speak or move he will stop

And search me, put me in a dim,

Squalid cell if I disobey his order.

I am to go back home,

Somewhere away from here,

Anywhere that is not here.

Truth was my neighbour,

My friend, my kin;

The sun turned to darkness,

The moon to blood,

Now he is none.

I am the deplorable other,

A few shades too dark, my skin.

The new laws enforced thus,

By truth I am expelled,

My home is gone.

Nazrul died today, newspaper says,

Spelt his name wrong, common mistake:

Unimportant, not an op-ed or commentary,

What does it matter anyway?

Father is well and mother survives,

My abode keeps me warm –

Veritable ivory tower, for far away

It is from the damned land.

Boy of nine this time, breaking news,

Left on the street to rot, fitting;

You want his name? Perish

The thought, who knows such things?

Father is well and mother survives,

They have democracy for comfort,

And fire on the streets for warmth,

No comparison with my “Communist Manifesto”.

Beaten copy, I pat once again –

Feign horror, cry for salvation,

Crocodile tears learnt from the master:

Young leader in pin-striped suit,

Champagne and caviar at night,

Saves us with chest-thumping by day,

Pretence for golden ticket, another slight,

A minister he will be tomorrow, celebrate!

His raping and pillaging will have to wait –

Doctor tries to resuscitate a corpse,

One more, what is the difference?

The elders speak of democracy,

Their time is now, we are saved!

Father is well and mother survives,

Wheels turn, world goes round,

Today’s leaders do so much for us!

My gratitude almost given before

Sufiya’s burnt, beaten, blood-stained

Body into focus comes, in print and on screen –

One question: fat or pregnant?

Obesity averted or over-population tackled?

Victory for leaders either way;

Father is well and mother survives,

Join me here they will, together to thrive.

Green and red held above our heads,

Pictures I see of celebrations -

Leaders young and old have their say, I

Join my countrymen from distant land

In their pride on this meaningless sacred day;

Father is well, but mother is silent,

Think nothing of it, she has democracy

To pull her through for decades more.

Mother is dead I am told –

First flight to Bangladesh, empty

Going that way, foolish to pay full price;

Plane descends, but no water in the land

Of rivers I see, only hues of red

All over, ablaze and flowing,

Turning, twisting, repeating;

Why am I even here, I wonder?

Funeral day, no-one left to mourn,

Nazrul, Sufiya, the nine year-old –

All too selfish, not here beside me;

Second problem: no place to bury,

Left and right I search, we have democracy

This cannot possibly be!

The columns, the talk-shows, the biases:

They were convincing, they assured me!

Toss her in the fire, cremation,

Paid the big bucks for my innovation

I am, now back I go, no time to mourn.

Before boarding chartered plane,

With a camera in my face, I say a word,

Maybe even two, I cannot stop!

Limelight seized, father is well

And we have democracy I tell.

Too long I spend being self-important,

Something misspoken or a step taken wrong –

They come and take me away,

Today I will die, they say.

This is democracy, I understand,

If not them then the other side

Will kill me for sure, I know this fact;

“Oh mother, what have I done?” I never ask,

No tears forthcoming, why should they?

I feel nothing, those who do are long dead.