To Refaat Alareer,
who became a kite
Brother, you looked so loving,
holding very gently
that box of
strawberries, and behind
your home, not yet,
not again,
but incessantly
in ruins.
You were not a number,
you were,
an educator,
a cheerful poet,
settler’s boogeyman,
and now that you’re dead, English is also
a language for mourning.
A strike occurs in a medium
it does not
simply
………
….
…
fall.
And your words
hang in air
heavier than any
gravity bombs.¹
1. American
• • • • • • • • • •
A letter to a friend explaining the student movement
I have been listening
to more Bollywood these
days. I have been writing Press Statements
for the Press that does not state what
must be stated. I live in despair. And I
sometimes wish I didn’t have to, but hearing
love songs, Bollywood love songs, without
having anybody to love in a Bollywood sort of way,
means I’m hoping to learn a few things
about romancing myself.
A newly made friend
told me
during the protests that he’s serious about
killing himself, & he was writing
a letter, and another
said she’s cutting herself after many years.
The first person, we don’t talk anymore, because I have
nothing to say.
They’re still alive. I am also still alive.
I am listening to Bollywood songs. I am writing
Press Statements.
I am talking to L, and he says,
the Vice-Chancellor is planning something
HUGE!!
He’s been flying back and forth to Delhi. He,
is a bastard, and I’m listening
to Bollywood songs, and I’m doing alright.
And I’m trying to love my friends, the ones I can,
the ones who can love me.
Long live that look
on your face, and mine. I am
listening to Bollywood
songs, and I’m imagining someone
who would have me fully.
I suffer egregiously from the main character
syndrome. I suffer from having faith
in people. Long live the crane
behind the Magis block that spent a year
building what it will never occupy.
Long live the cats in the New Academic Block
that don’t give a shit. So I am
writing Press Statements. I’ve always
danced in my room,
when nobody’s watching,
when the world is burning,
and I haven’t stopped.
Lonav Ojha is a 22-year-old writer from India. His work has previously appeared on ASAP Art, Agents of Ishq, LiveWire, and The Open Dosa. He was also longlisted for the 2024 TOTO Awards for Creative Writing in English. He writes regularly on his personal blog, Stories Under My Bed, where he attempts to reimagine resistance from the praxis of joy and education. Since the 2014 national elections, his country has plunged into the depths of Hindutva fascism, crushing dissent in all its varied expressions and stifling whatever remained of academic freedom in public universities. His instagram is @lonstagramz.
Photo credit: Magne Hagesæter via a Creative Commons license.
A note from Writers Resist
Thank you for reading! If you appreciate creative resistance and would like to support it, you can make a small, medium or large donation to Writers Resist from our Give a Sawbuck page.
Share your thoughts about this.