I cant title it
In our country ruled by gods, varied,
news is like fire
that only needs ignition.
Every other anti-social tales,
whether it be
selling the female body,
or what ever,
similar images and news filter in
over the democracy
like a river overflowing
banks of human wisdom.
And now, the current rape.
Media: print, visual and social
are oozing out red.
Stained butterfly marks
carry outlines of age old sin
on print and posters.
Gathering images of a mapless country
conjured upon a dissection table,
squashing young or old
from Gandhi to Irom
or from Kashmir to Kanyakumari
My doubts are not about the news
but about myself
reading the stories one after the other
sitting in my drawing room
and drinking hot coffee.
Why do I read them?
and expect more to come by ?
What details do I search in it?
The act of rape or the feel of flesh
as its stripped off its skin?
Is it my agitation marked as silence
that takes me back to another page?
or is it a brutal carnal voyeuristic pleasure
of the human race, inscribed in every single cell
that drives me to the stories
of blood stains on streets?
As I settle for my afternoon nap
one more doubt lingers on.
How long will the media remain crimson?
How long will our posts, poems, articles
and call for justice remain distinct?
till another news
of a different genre walks by
be it political victories,
petrol price hikes
gold and Indian weddings
out dated dam
or a bank robbery.
Now, Should I sit up on my bed and feel guilty?
or continue with my nap?
or participate in a protest meeting
later in the evening?