I Am a Thousand Voices
I am a thousand voices rising
over Chowringhee’s din, singing
a symphony of hope, of freedom
swelling like the sun.
I am a thousand workers marching
from shops and shacks and shanties, trickling
into a surging mass, like rivers
merging with the Ganges.
I am a thousand voices stifled
mouths choked with stones, wrung
of every word, like chickens flapping
headless at New Market.
I am a thousand people dying
and dotting dusty bylanes, bodies
pale and bodies dark, a rotting
carcass of a dream.
Purana Pul (A Ghazal)
Music wafted down cobbled streets down
bustling bazaars lining the bridge to Bhagmati
Gems and jewels and pearls were prized like
courtesans’ kisses beside the bridge to Bhagmati
Languorous couplets were whispered soft in
palaces of pleasures by the bridge to Bhagmati
Sounds of ghungroos were tinkling borne by
winds that sighed over the bridge to Bhagmati
Domed mosques with finials stood like
budding breasts beyond the bridge to Bhagmati
A prince rode into gathering gloom toward
his lover across the bridge to Bhagmati
Pale porcelain moonshine dripped over
burnished waters below the bridge to Bhagmati
Would you guess what bridges one builds for love unless
I, Bhavika, had heard the tale of the bridge to Bhagmati?
In Anantnag
The grey-winged ouzel
stole the voice from my throat
to sing on tin-roofed houses
where mothers lost their sons
and their wails rose up like mist
above the valley
The grey-winged ouzel
stole the voice from my throat
to sing in silver fir-trees
looking over rivers bloodied
by bodies drifting bloated
down the valley
The grey-winged ouzel
stole the voice from my throat
to tell my tale for our sake
the day the soldiers shot me
and their laughter rang like gunshots
through the valley
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