“I see nothing quite conclusive in the art of temporal government,
But violence, duplicity and frequent malversation.”
― T.S. Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral
I had written this piece 5 years ago https://judithnv25.blogspot.com/2019/03/the-simmer-of-discontent.html and little, if nothing, since then has changed.
The only thing that has remained constant, if not risen to lower levels, if that is a thing, has been the discourse. Sinking to new lows every day, especially this political season, and that too coming from the highest chair, while certainly shocking, has not been unexpected.
For it is from the abundance of the heart, a man speaks, and speech, well, it has been vitriolic, putrid, rank and foul, the stench overwhelming.
Much can be said to explain it away, that of humble origins, the lack of finesse or social graces, or even the lack of command of the language, but the sheer bigotry and raw, visceral hate looms large, overshadowing all pretense, laying bare instead the hubris, the megalomania and the sheer, plain contempt the supreme leader bestows on all whom he deems lesser mortals.
April has since come upon us with a
vengeance, the heat rising in oppressive waves, skins blistering. The skies are
hot and heavy and there is a dark stillness in the white glare bouncing off the
pavements. The air hangs heavy, a stifling breath heaving, dry, rasping. It is
as if the rage and anger and resentment over the years, seething, silent,
suppressed, waits every day on the boil.
I feel it too, as do countless others, the tightness in the chest, the hands that must be clenched but never raised, the muted lips that cannot dissent, dispute, declare.
It has been a season and then some, where those that have been mutilated, decapitated, hung from a tree, head spiked on a fence, are labelled traitors, illegal; those that have been silenced, imprisoned, died while imprisoned, called anti-national and where the ones that mock, deride, humiliate, are celebrated, in glory, pomp and splendor.
It has been a year of years, the waiting, the wailing, the dank despair, the deepening sense of doom and the abject misery of a nation that seems to have turned against itself.
Seemingly so and so often chanted in our faces, that we are the children of a lesser god, we, the lesser beings, we, the outsiders, the untouchables, we, indeed the people of India.
It has been a year of years.
I feel it too, as do countless others, the tightness in the chest, the hands that must be clenched but never raised, the muted lips that cannot dissent, dispute, declare.
It has been a season and then some, where those that have been mutilated, decapitated, hung from a tree, head spiked on a fence, are labelled traitors, illegal; those that have been silenced, imprisoned, died while imprisoned, called anti-national and where the ones that mock, deride, humiliate, are celebrated, in glory, pomp and splendor.
It has been a year of years, the waiting, the wailing, the dank despair, the deepening sense of doom and the abject misery of a nation that seems to have turned against itself.
Seemingly so and so often chanted in our faces, that we are the children of a lesser god, we, the lesser beings, we, the outsiders, the untouchables, we, indeed the people of India.
It has been a year of years.
For those millions ploughing across cracked furrows, the burdens of debt far greater, harder, insurmountable than the undertaking itself.
For those numerous homes that have forever lost loved ones, by a bullet, by a blinded mob, by hate and lust and by greed and well, simply for being born into a lesser self.
For those countless days of waiting, trudging, beseeching in the sun, in the rain, amidst the sweaty horde, for a day’s wages, only for it to be all taken away in one fell swoop.
For every heart-wrenching wail and the silent tears at bedside in the dark that have never once been acknowledged, addressed, given breath or justice to.
It has been a year of years.
While in the midst of shocking barbarity, the country has remained silent.
While fires rage in homes and hearts, the citizens remain silent.
While children, girls, women have been brutalized, the state remains silent.
While atrocities abound, derisiveness, divisiveness celebrated, the fourth estate remains silent.
While truth has been conveniently stepped, brushed aside, buried, while lies and even greater lies are projected a million times on screens everywhere, the people remain silent.
While the crescendo of falsehoods, suspicions, enmity, fascism continue to rise, and hate is spewed, flaunted, screamed at openly, the nation remains silent.
It has been telling, this silence.
Is it fear or approval?
Hard to tell, given the ominous, deafening non voices of a billion or more people.
Which begs me to ask again.
Are we lesser?
Do we truly belong?
Do our lives, our voices matter?
Or are we still the children of a lesser god, we, the lesser beings, we, the outsiders, the untouchables, rather than us all, we, the people of India.
It has been a year, a decade since. A year of years.
Maybe come this June, the voice of all of us will and shall be heard.
Not his voice or their voice or the
other many voices.
Our voice.
Our voice.
So heartfelt and true.
ReplyDelete