The Gorkha’s dream

When I was a little girl I grew up in Cooch Behar.
Mishti doi, rasagulla, chamcham, I held very dear.
I spoke only Rajbongshi and Bangla and ate Magur maach.
Those were lovely days I spend playing with friends under aam-er gaach.
As time passed, I loved things Bangali more,
Dhakkai , tangail, baluchari sarees, I bought galore.
Literate, egalitarian, good looking and progressive.
A community I adored and didn’t suspect of being discriminative.
So now that I am grown up I want to be a Bangali.
I can fictionalize and rewrite history, better than Bhansali.
I can man the academia, the art scene, the media,
I can always talk like a gyani, baki India will think I am Wikipedia.
I can be a leftist, a rightist, a centrist,
I can theorize everything because I  define the Zeitgeist.
I can be a commie or a trinamoolie and kill the Gorkhas,
Then I will strut around seminars  talking about Marx, Proust, Derrida, and Lorca.
I will thrive in University campuses talking about Palestine and Syria.
Because I am a  bhadralok, I will discuss  human rights in  Kashmir, Gujarat and Nigeria.
But I can turn a blind eye and pretend not to see or hear,
The state sponsored terrorism, the fake terrorist charges,  human rights violations , gorkhas killed by Bengal police in  Darjeeling (a place very near)
The vandalism of one bust would be national news,
I own the media so I would shape the “Liberal Indian” views.
I would be so powerful that I would manage what trends
On the national imagination, I would gloriously reign.
Because I would be so mighty, I would decide the narrative,
Of Kamtas,  Kochs, Gorkhas and other non-imperatives.
I would live in the glorious past  of Bose, Vidyasagar, Paramhansa, and Tagore,
Behind this veneer of civilization I would carry on my agenda of blood and gore.
Sonar Bangla, Sonar Bangla, I would chant day and night.
I would live in delusions of my own glory and might.
Contrary voices, I would pretend not to hear,
Deep down I  would know we are doomed, so I wouldn’t want to confront my fear.
I could refuse to accept that Bengal is now called the Badlands
A notorious title that once belonged to the Hindi heartlands.
After writing this poem I have decided that I don’t want to be a Feku,
So if I can be anything,  I will rather be the Queen of Timbuktu.


Divya Pradhan in Times of India