On the Back of a Charkha (Gandhian Philosophy)

Sangita Kalarickal

Collective memory blends into a formless sludge

in a historian's petri dish.

Social history vanishes into mists of reinterpretation

No one is left now to sing the songs of what once was

No one left to remind us of the stakes.

All who gave of themselves have crossed into eternity

And the story of freedom is shoved to the back of the shelf.

Freedom, won not by the swords of kings but on 

the bare, lathi bruised, bony backs of the very uncommon commoner

led mostly by the charisma of a very bald, toothless, frail loin clothed old man.

His call for swadeshi turned the wheel faster

to weave billows of subjugation into a fabric of freedom

Brown unto brown with the courage it takes to Be.

Pain succumbs to sheer strength of stubborn resistance.

Collective memory blends into a formless sludge

Will we forget completely?

What did it take to lead wave over wave of anger in ahimsa?

When a wave was clubbed down, the one behind rose forward 

to bolster the Tiranga.

Never raise a hand in attack yet never let the flag touch dirt.

Never let the flag touch dirt.

Bio: Sangita Kalarickal is a wordsmith with work appearing in several journals and anthologies. The poems in her first chapbook Mamina (Kavya-Adisakrit, 2023), range from free-verse poetry to haikai form. She is currently an associate editor of Drifting Sands Haibun Journal and conducts the podcast Ripples in the Sand. Dr. Kalarickal lives in Minnesota, USA with her husband, kid, her little garden and the fantasy characters she writes about. 

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Setu, October 2023 :: Gandhian Philosophy

Three poems: Sangita Kalarickal

Sangita Kalarickal

AKICITA

Every bullet has a name
of the life it fiercely claims.
The fallen tell tales
of songs they’d sung
in another time,
never to be heard again.
Of loves waiting up
for a familiar knock,
never to be heard again.
Each their own lives,
their own people, their own peoples.
all who once knew their names.
And when the sun sets 
over the tomb of the unnamed soldier

in each land,
breezes whisper gently

Say it.
Say the name.

Those names which live on

but in mournful ballads through eons…
Will they disappear

forever?

 

Notes: Akicita is a Sioux or Lakota word for warrior.
***

 

A BLOODY SPRING SOMEWHERE

winter songs drift

on icy drafts through wooden window slats

tunes of lament,

of darkness,

of unharvested fields.

 

by the wayside, the sakura

peeks into slow, rising

temperatures;

each face a pink smile

until April storms bash down

from the raging skies

…

…

pinks float on the current now

sun winks on the ripples

“...clouds of gloom,

But these are transient all;”

I am not so sure anymore.

 

winter songs drift

on icy drafts through wooden window slats

 

Notes: The lines “Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, But these are transient all; " are from Charlotte Brontë 's wonderful poem, Life.

***

 

LINES OF COMMUNICATION

Snap my suitcases shut
And walk out
Never to look back.
Every step I take, I wonder

How were the cracks

formed? 

Was it what you did?
Was it what I did?
Or what I said?

Dissection
Over
and over.
Again.

Do paths cross naturally
To diverge
again?

One step
before another heavy step.
Leaden.
On molten tar.
Sinking.
Each moment a lifetime,
before I realize
It was never about what was done,
...only about 

          what 

you never said.

***

Bio: Sangita Kalarickal is a wordsmith, crafting in the forms of poetry, both free-form and haikai styles, and fiction. Her work has been published in several e-magazines, and anthologies. She utilizes her left brain at her day job in technology. Dr. Kalarickal lives in Minnesota, USA with her husband, kid, and her garden which she shares with wildlife, sometimes happily.

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Setu, November 2022