To my country that is my country
When will you stand for Manipur,
To the people sitting in the trade halls, now refugee camps, since there’s no trade, no education, no occupation, and barely any food or certainty of the next meal.
To the women who married across tribes, their vows made in love, not war, who now cry silent pleas to reunite with families they never thought would be torn apart by the cruelty of division. Their tears are invisible to those who should notice, their pain drowned in the silence of indifference.
The cries – oh, the cries –
They no longer pierce the air; they whisper, fading into the void. A pathetic, pleading silence hangs heavy because those who could speak choose not to.
Isn’t there more to life than these false battles?
The problems we’ve created magnified into monstrosities, while the real ones are ignored. I wonder, how does the rain feel in an unknown land? How does winter touch skin when you’re not at home, where you once knew the scent of damp earth and the warmth of a familiar blanket?
It isn’t that easy – or is it? – to gather your life in a briefcase and move on, when you have no idea when or if you can return.
But I think it is, when you need to run for your life, to save and protect what you hold dear – your family.
Where are they now – those who once begged for our votes?
The ones who promised change with hands outstretched,
Who swore they’d stand for us.
Its been 19 months now.
Nineteen months is not measured in calendars or clocks. It is measured in the weight of grief carried daily, in the hollow echoes of laughter that once filled a home, in unspoken prayers whispered into the dark, begging for a dawn that does not come.
Nineteen months is measured in lives paused, in dreams abandoned, in hope battered but not yet extinguished.
To the “you” still inside, muster the courage to rise.
What comfort will tea bring, when injustice sits so heavily?
The injustice sits heavy, unmovable. Their voices break through, pleading to be heard, and still, we drown them out with our comfortable ignorance.
To my country, my own:
How long will you wait to heal?
How long before you gather the broken pieces of those who call you home and return to them what was stolen?
Quoting a few lines from a verse of Baba Bulleh Shah,
“Ik nukte vich gal mukdi ae,
Rabb ditta sabnu sukhdi ae,
Bandya ban ae bandya,
Teri zaat na puchda Rab kolo.”
Which translates to,
“God has given peace and comfort to everyone.
O human, become truly human,
For God does not ask about your caste or identity.”
Bani Verma is a MBBS student dedicated to understanding the intersections of medicine, society and humanity.
