Letter To The Mist

Dear Gandhi,

Last summer,
on a sleepless feverish afternoon,
I read of a woman in Israel,
Black-robed and stone-faced
Hanged
For killing her rapist.

In winter,
I was studying for an exam
When somewhere in Pakistan
School children
Were shot by the Enemy
To spite the army.

That same winter,
I planted white roses
As chilled to the bone,
Paris bled
For her murdered magazine.

I stopped counting the death toll long ago.
I dream of red snow.

Gandhi,
If your blood is as red as ours,
Shall you come back, once again
To preach
The meaning of ahimsa,
Right now?

Or is our blood
Already too black and vile
For your white untainted heart?
(If we are finally the untouchables
Shall you not lead the way
To your humble ashram
And teach us to spin yarn
From our sins? )

When exactly,
Did the trials of Harishchandra end?

Meanwhile,
Tell me.
Do the roses in heaven still bloom,
Watered by your tears?

Yours truly,
A truth-seeker from the shadows
Chained to her fears

By Archita Mittra

This poem won the first prize in the “Inspired By Gandhi” international writing competition 2015 by Sampad and British Council and was published in a commemorative anthology.

Biography:

Archita Mittra is a wordsmith and visual artist with a love for all things vintage and darkly fantastical. She occasionally practices as a tarot card reader. Twitter: https://twitter.com/archita_mittra Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/camelot_queen1996/ Website: https://thepolyphonicphoenix.wordpress.com/