I-III: Bloody July in Bangladesh
poetry from the July Uprising. cover image by @debashish.chakrabarty on IG
i. And so, Mother Bangla hollered: ‘O, my people—it is time; change is nigh! These tides shall no longer tarry. Verily, the uprising will come bearing the searing might of vengeance. O, revolutionaries, how our veins pulse with pride! Do not back down. For this land we must fight, for it is this land to which our spirits inevitably return!’ ii. There is a little song that I know. I sing it to the shaheeds in my sleep, wading along the current with my fingers gripping tightly to the hip-dips of my curls. A magpie streaks after me, its mischief tittering to the tune on my tongue. Palms reach up from beneath the water; I kiss all the ones I can, my mouth moving still. The moon will not stop asking me if he ought to repent. Each time, I must tell him that such a thing is not for me to decide. iii. Ayan returns to me, limbs beaten and bloodied, the green eked out of his tattered shirt collar, his wide grin twitching like it was suddenly sentient. “Brother, Bangla has turned red,” he says, each word trapped beneath the crushing heel of breath. I inquire what the root of his joy might be if all he brings is word of violence. “Our freedom fighters,” Ayan cries, pressing the stringed beads he’s turned to pebbles into my palm, “they live on, my friend! They thought our revolutionaries were forgotten to time, but I have seen them with my own eyes, heard their roars from across our borders! Perhaps they have always been here, tucked away in the hearts of our young. But even as Bangla bleeds, they live on, they live on!”