Mr. Shantanu Bhowmik

there's no song for you tonight, Mr. Shantanu Bhowmik, 

some people will rejoice, we know who they are,

and this is not about them.

as for us, we are too scared of being judged

after all, your ancestors were criminals, as were mine

as you know, buddy, crimes across history does lead to anger across history. some people rejoice in this anger, it makes them powerful, we know who they are,

and this is not about them

as for us, we are too weary too churn

how, thoughts, actions, words, pictures - bring some people closer, thwart some asunder

like all histories have ever been doing - 

through all these wars and struggles big and small - across all these walls that we have built 

in the name of all the shit that frightens us, 

all that hollows us out, 

that chokes our music

and snuffs our candles - 

stern bricks like caste, race, creed, colour, religion, passport-stamps, public opinion, political mores of the enlightened et cetera et cetera.

personally, perhaps, a few of us will hum a timid tune or two for you, Mr. Shantanu Bhowmik, or sigh or weep for you - but all from deep inside these enlightened walls. like we sang and wept and sighed deep inside when that kid who got killed for wearing a shahid afridi tee-shirt had etched a small ripple across our respective information bubbles a few moons ago.

even then, some had rejoiced, 

but it was never about them.

it has always been about us. 

we are afraid

we are tired

ghosts haunt us every night

many moons down the line, these ripples will turn into smudges, and then, into indelible imprints,

and then, something incredible will happen

maybe, certain magic doors will open up 

maybe, the ghosts will stop haunting us,

the bullies will stop bullying us

the killers will stop killing us bit by bit

we have the privilege to imagine

we have the privilege to dream,

to learn

to climb trees and mountains;

we are alive

we are afraid of political incorrectness

we are tired of all the killings 

we are silent

we are screaming

we are criminals

we draw flowers

we draw pistols

ghosts haunt us every night

and the ghosts have taken all our songs for you tonight, Mr. Shantanu Bhowmik.