Journalist-activist Gauri Lankesh, who was shot dead in Bengaluru on September 5, wrote fiercely against divisive right-wing politics and the Hindutva agenda.A candlelight march for Gauri Lankesh. Credit: ReutersThis is the first in the five-part ‘Poems in Saffron Ink’ series.The Wire presents the ‘Poems Written in Saffron Ink’ series that capture the present environment of divisive politics, with threats to freedom of expression, where minorities feel unsafe and incidents of mob lynching have become common.§Gauri. Bangalore. 2017.Knock knockWho’s there?BulletBullet, who?A bullet and three more inside youKnock knockWho’s there?CameraCamera, who?Twenty-three cameras as if you were posingin your own bloodPicture yourself, cotton against concrete, lyingacross television screens in Mandya, Delhi, Gorakhpur.Here is the news you couldn’t live to see.Here is the news you lived, the news you have becomein your absence.Knock knockWho’s there?Who’s there?Who’s there?To where did they marchyou away in white sheets and two garlands?Who’s there?I am there where I no longer receive news of myselfGhalib said before his dyingYou are writing. You must be writinga revolution rising from print, words growinginto trees, into forests of legends—a moving forest once felled a tyrant.Knock knock on the tyrant’s door.Knock knockThe forest is comingIt’s coming. It’s cominglike your news is comingas it always camein unwavering blowsIt’s coming, now, it’s comingbecause you are notIt rained the whole day after you went. Strangers stoodtogether—an unusual sight for the city, for themselves.They held your words in bad handwriting—blue markeron flimsy paper above their heads—that withered as the rain fell.They stood for hours as you did, on the same stepsof that garish landmark in the heart of the city.Drenched city.Broken hearts.Fighting hearts.Hearts making senseof a sudden love. Or a sudden hate of monsoon where the rain comesdown as bullets.Poorna Swami is a writer and dancer based in Bangalore.
