Category Archives: prose

BEHIND THE SCENES

Posted on by akanksha gupta

When it comes to war, each person roots for different sides as though they’re their favorite cricket teams. Some look at the history; the originator, the aggressor. Some look at the bigger picture; the countries or alliances benefited. Some also look at the power struggles and support either the expected winner or the ‘underdog’. And then there are some who look at the religions of the warring factions and decide upon the one with a darker overtone as the unequivocal perpetrator.

But who does the majority of us support?

The majority of us supports neither side, just commiserates their misfortune, passes a remark or two with indifference and gives up thinking about them as a lost cause, all the while thanking our stars that we were not born in the ever-warring conflict zone. The majority of us pities the poor people born into that world, for ‘collateral damage’ is inevitable in war.

The question is what if we were born into that world?

The question is, how many of you stop for a moment to consider the “collateral damage” – the civilian life, livelihoods, peace and stability? How many for a moment, step out of this humongous cloud of hatred and rejection that is bound together by a history of foolish pride, stubborn politics of retaliation and wrong decisions? How many of you ever think about the ‘Humans of Israel-Palestine‘?

Oh no, this is not really about the Israel Palestine issue. It is about how, by supporting neither sides, we are still supporting the war. This is not an attempt to criticize or propose a solution. It’s a cold hard recipe of bitter ugly truths. It is a mirror to our actions; a harsh reminder of what we may be doing. And all the while, it’s reverberating the voice of the people spouting those truths, splaying their misery unto the world and crying for a reprieve. Indeed, it’s about those people suffering behind the scenes.

 

Broken orbs, ruby red, as fresh as the midnight air,

Splatter onto me today, I shrug them off and stare afar

A little jarred, with eyes scared, a little cold, a little hard,

My bones benumbed, cling on, chilled to the core,

The anger should have melted them by now,

Burnt them to a blackened barbequed crisp, but

I guess my heart has frozen like lead; strangled

My neck like an albatross, and I fear

If a little more sorrow is pelted on it, it’ll break

Apart, like the crystal glass that showed me once,

A little girl, a life away from grenades and gunpowder,

But shows me now the lifeless face of my mother;

I shudder, and open my eyes to the moon-white, as

The crystal ball shatters into a million orbs, ruby red,

As fresh as the midnight air, and I?

With a grim smile, I shrug them off…

– By Akanksha Gupta

THE VOICE OF HUNGER

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This post is a part of the blog-a-thon by World Vision India on Youth Ki Awaaz

Do you know what hunger feels like? Do you know what it is like to work without food and sleep on an empty belly? Do you know how those millions of people who struggle for every single morsel every single day of their lives feel? Through the story of a young girl, travel through the bitter palpable taste that shocks your senses into numbness:
 

VIDEO TRANSCRIPT (FOR POETRY)

Behind the curtain of brackish brown hair
Caked with the breath of a dying hope
Meshed like the wires of a broken basket
That I sometimes see that lady carry
Across the street, filled with apples
And apricots and cherries and all things good,
My mouth salivates,
But then,
I wonder how I must look in the mirror;
No, that lady didn’t bring that basket for me
Why would she?
I chant it like a broken tape recorder
She doesn’t know me and if she ever looks at me,
All she must see is one of those nameless faces
In the crowd, whose eyes peek out
In longing, like the fruits from her basket,
And she sneers; does she think we are thieves?
Well, she’s not wrong, we might as well be, if –
If we could get away with it, and as such
There’s been a thought or two in my head
That consumes my entire being
Whenever that eternal gnawing in my belly
Whenever that dull ache, whenever that stubborn throb,
Once in a while, becomes a mute struggle
Of not keeling over with pain,
I persevere, I persevere, I persevere
Nothing can be done;
I want to cry, but you can’t hear,
My voice doesn’t touch an apathetic ear
The tears have dried; my heart is hollow,
And I’m still standing hunched over a puddle of blood
Clutching my big bloated belly with bony hands
That are still bleeding from last week’s labor,
And now my mouth is also shining red,
I wonder how I must look in the mirror;
I am burning up,
My breaths are shallow, my head is dizzy
But I – I’m still working
So that I can at least fill my belly
With a stale bread at night
You see, I’ve stopped stealing half-eaten dinners
From the bins across the street
Last time my friend did it she slept
And in her sleep
She tossed, she frothed and she bled
And she never woke up again
Sometimes I wish I had been in her stead
Because I can’t bear this hopelessness alone
I can’t return from this godforsaken shantytown
Languishing in the heart of a merciless city
To my home in the village with my parents
Who a few years ago had sold me, the seventh daughter
To some company, for a few thousand dollars
And I – I forgave them, you would too if you saw their
Skeletal ghostly frames, hungry stomachs and lifeless eyes
Hanging onto this earth by a stroke of misfortune,
You see, we the poor, we the hungry, we the malnourished
We the society’s dregs who are kicked daily by the mercenaries
By the law, by the war, by our poverty, by your apathy,
We, who barely survive by the day at the precipice
And barely get sleep with this empty belly at night,
We either live like the roaches or die like the moths
We are as desensitized to life as we are to death
Perhaps that’s why I can admit that today –
Today, I’m feeling a little too drained
And dizzy and drowsy
I’m still burning up like the sun
And I think I might just pick up something from the bin
For I think this is my last breath, yes tonight,
I won’t wake up again, and I – I’d like it
Of my own volition, of my own choice, of my own desire
I’d like to be able to choose to die
As I couldn’t choose to live

-Akanksha Gupta