For Manipur

When truth wears
the emperor’s new clothes,
and nakedness becomes a parade, If civilization began with dressing, we are in retrograde.
She is auctioned everyday
to corporates,
parts of her renamed,
only given a parrot voice,
You allow anybody
to touch her in Kashmir now,
Consent was never a choice.
Hear her cries as she is undraped, What is a small piece of cloth
now seems like miles,
And Lord Krishna drops
the curves of his smile.
Smell the burnt smell of flesh in Hathras, See Asifas born in new avatars, And witness wrestling,
no longer remains a sport,
as only one side wins.
You fight imaginary jihads,
But save real wars,
only with your rhetoric:
Beti Bachao, beti padao.
Beti ko bachao, bete ko padao!
When cells its own body do invade its no longer called cancer,
It is children destroying the mother in a parade.
Mother India,
when colonisers did it,
it was called rape,
When your own children do it,
what of it, do you make?