Petrol bombs like ripe oranges

In the hands of the men

Walking along the death valley.

A red river passes along

Calm as the poesy of Radha

Forceful as the nightly love of Krsna.

Petrol bombs like love-diamonds

Thrown with the beauteous force of miners of Africa.

Nights lit up with diamonds

Fires lit up like Diwali

Corpses lay about like feasts of Thanksgiving.

And guns, guns like shit-machines

Of gorgeous animals

It’s a festival of blood

It’s a festival of ripe oranges

I walk in this alley of death

Feasting on blood

Feasting on human meat.

February reveals its deep mystery

Bodies of the dead

Have come together in a pristine art form

The drains will be searched for the dead

The crevices of birdnests will be searched

The tandoor will be opened out.

Yeh aeb ishq yeh bair ishq

This bitter love, this hateful love

My work is love, my name is love

I come here today

To drink your blood

And eat ripe oranges.

I walk through the dead

Besmirching my face with blood.

…

Atreyee is a poet, writer and anthropologist who teaches at the Jindal School of Liberal Arts and Humanities, at Sonipat, Haryana. She is currently conducting research on the Bhakti tradition of Krishna worship in the Braj region of Uttar Pradesh.