India and the Indian: A Traitor's Testimony, and Séance in Kashmir

This essay is part of Firstpost’s ‘India and the Indian’ series, which examines the renewed idea of nationalism in vogue today, and what it means. Read more from this series . *** A traitor’s testimony by Malathi Maithri I’m a traitor who speaks in her mother-tongue I’m a traitor who eats beef I’m a traitor who does not worship Hindu Gods I’m a traitor who refuses to return to the old religion I’m a traitor who loves a man of another religion I’m a traitor who refuses to sleep with her husband I’m a traitor who does not give birth to five children I’m a traitor who refuses to kill her lovers I’m a traitor who will not chant Bharat Mata ki Jai when a Dalit sister is paraded naked I’m a traitor who declines to murder a brother in the crusades to save the cow I’m a traitor who will not donate to fund a religious riot I’m a traitor who will not scream for the deportation of those who embrace Islam I’m a traitor who says do not destroy the forests I’m a traitor who says do not destroy the mountains I’m a traitor who says do not poison the seas I’m a traitor who says do not loot the rivers I’m a traitor who is against nuclear reactors This is how I became a traitor This is how I became anti-Indian — Translated into English by Meena Kandasamy [imgcenter]

[/imgcenter] Illustration © Namaah K for Firstpost Séance in Kashmir  by Aditi Angiras   fractured like a plaster frescoed into the valley red like corridors stained with lichens the nights glow green   hope hides its wickerwork in a kanger burning like shikaras in the sky the water is the vehicle to hunchbacked histories   the florist delivers old floating homes to rows of white lilies sharing coup and supper with gentlemen deodar trees   the eyes of young boys move black mirrors to stones echoes stand silent at street corners to watch tanks turn transparent   spilled like a shiver we wrestle their laughter shuffle photographs captured unfocused like half-remembered dreams   ghosts jump into jackets calibrated memories listen in unspoken tongues kohl smudged like a border on the heads of praying mats — From ‘A Map Called Home’