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Father Stan Swamy
Father, forgive us,
For we know not what we do;
We only know how to
Keep a man of god
Without a sipper and a glass;
Nothing now, leaves us aghast.
As your health ebbed away,
You told them,
‘It is possible I may die soon,
For I can neither bathe
Nor eat on my own’;
But they did disown,
Not only you, but our entire humanity,
By denying you bail,
Keeping you suffering
For two hundred and thirty four days in jail.
Afflicted with Parkinsons coupled with Covid
Your breath slowly ebbed away;
Then they placed you on a ventilator;
At your bail hearing they said,
They will get to it a day later.
It is then that the doctor declared,
Your lordships he did die yesterday;
But it was not just you,
It was our conscience they did slay.
Father, I weep for you,
For your gentle spirit
Your good Christian ways,
The mosaic you brought
Into these hard, concrete days.
In prison you said,
The pain and smiles of the under-trials
Brought you closer to god;
That you were not alone;
Those who worked with the adivasis
Were branded as naxals and told to atone.
They insisted you were a terrorist,
So easy to call god’s pilgrim this name;
O, how will we be able
To overcome our collective shame?
You were tied to a cross
And so were we;
With every nail hammered
The soul of India bled,
But you are not dead;
We love you Father,
Will carry your name to our lips,
Resurrection is but the continuing of the good fight;
O father, lead us kindly into the light.
(Sagari Chhabra is an award-winning author & film-maker. She is director of the Hamaara Itihaas archives. Courtesy: Mainstream Weekly)
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Swamy and Friends: A Poem
Beyond the Gangetic plain and the Jumna,
they had their world, women dancing in the night
tapping their earth-and-sky-world into rhythm;
their days ruled by taboo and totem
long before Freud had heard of them;
cults flowered, and shamans held the long stick
Civilisation advanced with Surf and powdered milk;
amulets and talismans were plucked
from their hair, a rout of the adivasi,
and they were told that the cosmos was ruled
by a trinity: Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva;
others came, white-skinned, and their trinity had
a Holy Ghost jungle-folk didn’t know what to do with.
(the state knew what to do: it shot their King, Pravir Chandra Bhanj Deo)
Socialists jumped in and told them of their rights
to land and livelihood—trouble was they
didn’t know what rights were. Then guns came in,
and modern saints – Kobad Ghandi, Stan Swamy.
Kobad was kept in Jail for ten years in the
days of Sonia G and Somnolent Singh.
The anti -secessionist state was born
as Modiji came into power, strong state.
If you had no mai-bap, you were left to fate;
no bail, more jail. If accused, you fried.
Only votaries of Human Rights cried.
Young women of Pinjra Tod spent 13 months in Tihar.
Stan Swamy died.
Nothing will happen, those who wrote lies
in charge sheets, those who denied him bail,
those who were heartless in jail
and didn’t let him have a straw to drink
they just let him sink.
On his death bed, let it be noted
they’ll all be promoted
(Keki N. Daruwalla is a poet, short story writer and former IPS officer. Courtesy: The Wire.)
