(Hi)stories

No.We weren't taught to write words in their language, with the broken pens they gave us.

Yet when we write, we write (hi)stories on their books with bloodied hands and wounded hearts;  in our words.

And (hi)story that is, of existing, when like sawdust on old tables, they wipe us away.

Of winter nights warmed up by women who write inquilab on roads,
Of chai that tastes of the revolution, it's love, like blankets, comforting.

Of children, inside packed school buses, learning to chant azadi, to the beat of the daflis on the road to Jamia.
Of the crayons that colour their notebooks in hues of the revolution.

Of women who write poems on their hijab
And prostrate in worship, before yellow barricades.
Of the paintings and poems that walked out of papers to the streets, in revolt.
And the roads that became libraries telling our stories, when on fire, they set our books.

Of guns that shivered at the sheer grace of  Shadabs walking to them,
Of lathis that dropped down, at the curled fists and pointed fingers, of unarmed women.

Of the smiles we exchanged, the laughs we shared feasts we cooked, when from life, they sought to bar us.

Of the ghazals we listened to, the letters we wrote to each other and the kisses that our lips exchanged, when to love became our resistance.

And (hi)story that is, of the breaths that became this revolution.

We write (hi)stories on their books with bloodied hands and wounded hearts;  in our words.