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 

corruption chains, 

food insecurities

selling the female body, 

child abuse

waste management, 

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?

Of-course,

till another news 

of a different genre walks by

be  it political victories, 

terrorist attacks,

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?