Stand Alone

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY PRANTIK BANERJEE WON THE FIRST PRIZE IN WINGWORD POETRY COMPETITION OF FIFTY THOUSAND RUPEES (MAIN CATEGORY)

When a city burns

a poem often gets booked.

Slapped by an F.I.R

it is handcuffed,

its unruly words locked up

on charges of sedition, treason

or any such stately reason.

But it’s got spine –

standing alone, it defies prison and fine.

When the city keeps burning

even after the fires are doused

and the rubble is cleared,

and the streets breathe smoke

from charred bodies and gutted shops,

a few words manage to slip

through the iron bars of

muzzled voices and murdered hopes.

When the city is burnt

a poem’s syllables

sometimes cry in anguish,

sometimes smoulder in anger.

They refuse to die

speaking out things unspeakable –

about how the mullah's call

and the pandit's chant

made decades-old neighbours slice

each other’s throats on curfewed nights.

Sometimes you may see

widowed words, bereft of meaning,

wailing on thresholds

where faith no longer kneels and heals.

When the city is dead

a poem still survives,

though knifed by the mob

and tortured by the police.

A poem

always lives to stand alone.