Wound diary

Athila Hussain recalls, in her poem, the brutal police action on Jamia students during their peaceful parliament march on 10th of February.

Could you grab some cotton for me please,
Yes, I am a Jamia student.
Oh yes, you can’t see my wounds,
They were well planned.
Those zombies in uniform.
They had battons,
They hit my breast,
They hit my stomach,
I could feel my womb bleeding,
Where to bandage?
I too am confused !
My heart is bleeding
Not the virtual heart,
the real one.
It didn’t thud faster than usual,
when they crunched my abdomen with lathis.
But it was hurt,
when everything got normalised.
I saw a man sweeping the corridor,
Sweeping all those pellets and bullets.
That was relief for my pain.
My pericardium beats again,
When I see the broom I feel like jumping from my hospital bed,
But I can’t.
The cold blue blood patches prickle me again .
Khaki is a symbol
Of Domination !
Of Slavery?
But we The Urban Naxals
Are all for one
And one for all.


(Athila is a MA English student in Jamia Millia Islamia)