The war – i

A ladybird came and sat on my bed today.
It’s red wings with black polka dots fluttered,
Like a bleeding body covered with bullet wounds.

Hundreds of thousands of people chant war cries
Sitting in front of the television in their living rooms.
The anchors on television channels explain
The definition of revenge.

My mother tells me that she was five years old in 1971.
She tells me that her mother finished cooking dinner
By four in the evening,
That their family of eight ate their dinner in candle light.
She says that their entire neighbourhood could have vanished
If they forgot to turn their lights off.
She says it’s the closest she has ever felt to death.

My father was eleven.
He tells me about how they covered all the windows with newspapers,
And how no one ever stepped out of their homes after six.

I wonder what the homeless did.
I wonder where they hid, or if the value of their lives
Was lesser than the others because they were poor.

My parents are old.
They say that if there’s a war,
They hope it never reaches the streets of Dilli,
And if it does, they hope we all die together.

On social media,
There are viral videos,
Some of them are real, most of them are not.
I know how to read three languages,
And I’ve learned that the people speaking them
All have the same definition of violence.
They want bloodshed,
Not enough to flood the roads outside their homes,
But enough to make sure that the country doesn’t lose.

The soldiers, when they signed up for their jobs,
Knew that they might have to die for their country,
And they do.

On TV screens,
Political leaders congratulate each other as spectators clap,
And they smirk at each other
Like this was all a part of some big scheme,
And maybe it is.

But there are people from our country dying,
And even though we claim to be heartbroken,
We lose the right to mourn their deaths
The moment we start celebrating loss of life
On the other side of the border.

– D