Joshua Bodhinetra

Poems and Text

Labani Jangi

Paintings

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She lived in a land where crematoriums were melting down and hospitals were running out of oxygen. Oh Ishmael, how he struggled to breathe! She lived in a land where doctors were jailed and farmers seen as terrorists. Darling Nazia and Sohrab... Oh! precious Ayleen... How was she going to feed them now? She lived in a land where human beings were expendable and cows were divine. With her little patch of land sold off to pay for her husband’s medicines, where would she seek refuge now?She lived in a land where promises of statues, toilets and fake citizenship were enough to legitimise atrocities. Even if she survived the endless queues at the graveyard, what would she pay the gravediggers with? She lived in a land where spectacled babus and bibis endlessly argued over comments and cappuccino whether the system was collapsing, or was rigged to begin with. Sohrab was inconsolable. Nazia was a stone. Ayleen giggled and tugged at her mother&#39;s fraying dupatta. The ambulancewala was demanding 2,000 rupees extra. Her neighbours were warning her not to touch her husband’s corpse. Last night someone had jaggedly written the words ‘katwa sala’ on her doorway. People were murmuring about a second lockdown. Yesterday the ration-dealer was caught hoarding 50 bags of rice. Sohrab had fainted. Nazia clutched on to the end of her father&#39;s kafan so hard that her fingers bled. Five drops of crimson to bid farewell to the white. Ayleen had fallen asleep. She lived in a land where everything was sold off to the highest bidder, from railways to vaccines, from ministers to swaddling infants. She had lost her farmland, yet a lone bottle of Folidol remained under the shed where Ishmael used to keep his brilliant white jubba. He had been the village muezzin. She had lost her mother, brother, and husband one after another to this nayi bimari, yet her three children remained like the mihrāb and qiblah of her life. Nazia was 9, Sohrab 13, and Ayleen barely 6 months old. Her choice, after all, was simple.

<h3>Look my son, there’s a heart in the moon — With a million holes all soft mehroon.</h3>

<h3>Dust is a mehfil, Dust is a sigh, Dust is a farmer’s red lullaby.</h3>

<h3>Hush my darling, learn to be brave — Sleep like a furnace, sing like a grave.</h3>

<h3>This land is a cinder, Thirsty cylinder, Trapped like a mirror in the dream of a shard — We are but a number, Hungry November, Black like a rose or a carrion bird.</h3>

<h3>God is a vaccine, God is a pill, God is a graveyard’s unpaid bill.</h3>

<h3>Ballad of a bread, Or a sky in a scar-tissue marching ahead.</h3>

<h3>Red is a nusrat, Red is a tomb, Red is a labourer’s cellophane womb.</h3>

<h3>Tasleem tasleem in a poor man’s cloud — Drop a pin, tahsin, like a sanitary shroud.</h3>

<h3>Death is a ghoomār, hush baby hush! Look to the flames, how silhouettes blush.</h3>

GlossaryFolidol: insecticide Ghoomār: traditional Rajasthani folk dance jubba: a long loose-fitting outer garment with wide sleeves, a kind of very loose kurta kafan: funeral shroud mehfil: festive gathering mehroon: the colour maroon mihrāb: a semi-circular niche in a mosque indicating the qiblah muezzin: one who gives the call to prayer at a mosque nayi bimari: new sickness/ new disease nusrat: victory, assistance, defence qiblah: the direction towards the Kaaba tahsin: to beautify, to enrich tasleem: submission, salutation

Five drops of crimson…farewell to the white

ఐదు రక్తపు బొట్లతో….తెలుపుకు వీడ్కోలు

കടുംചുവപ്പിന്‍റെ അഞ്ച് തുള്ളികള്‍... വെളുപ്പിന് വിട

ਚਿੱਟੇ ਕਫ਼ਨ 'ਤੇ ਕਿਰੀਆਂ ਸੁਰਖ਼ ਪੰਜ ਬੂੰਦਾਂ ਨੇ ਵਿਦਾ ਕਹਿ ਦਿੱਤਾ

ପାଞ୍ଚ ବୁନ୍ଦା ରକ୍ତ…ବାପାଙ୍କୁ ବିଦାୟ

செந்நிறத்தின் ஐந்து துளிகள்.. வெள்ளைக்கு பிரியாவிடை!

پھول اس قبر پہ جاکر میں چڑھاؤں کیسے

फूल उस क़ब्र पे जा कर मैं चढ़ाऊं कैसे

શ્વેત વિદાયને પાંચ ટીપાં રાતાં …

বিদায় বিদায় লালচে বেলায় দুধসাদা কার দেহ?

Nadia

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Five drops of crimson…farewell to the white

This is poetry that pierces, paintings that perforate – and a story of the pandemic

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