WHERE SILENCED BEATS MADE MUSIC

There was a free concert
No one was invited
Everyone came.

Free, because you were not the audience
You were the artist.
To hear the music here
You had to make it yourself.

The rain-washed streets for stage
A drizzle of rain for ambience
Humble Tambourines as grand instruments
Along with clapping hands,
Focussed eyes,
Determined spirits.

Every corner of the street
Saw thousands of artists
Make music -
on education
on accountability
Imploring apathy
Seamlessly blending with the music
Of dignities fractured
By an inflexible regime.

The impaired rhythm
Of empty stomachs and broken hearts
Was balanced by a terrific melody
Of oppression and agony.
A perfect medley.

The medley wasn’t endless
A pre-determined end
Needed the instrument of a pen
To make a small screech sound
On a particular paper
And complete the symphony

Hidden or Stolen or Lost.
The clandestine fate of this pen
Only brought in more artists
Who opened their hearts
To give a pulsating beat

Artists, like ants
Made a self-sustained colony
Were swatted, unsparingly
Resilience remained their strongest muscle

On the strings of love
And keys of care
The music slated to curtail
Became an unending orchestra

Burden fell on the pen
To write the end.

So it appeared,
The pen got some responsibility
Even if it’s apparatchik holder don’t

Music muted for a moment
A tiny, promising screech was inserted
To this thriving melody

And then there was an uproar
A moment of celebration

A moment of silence
For no artist could re-write the beats
Of a few teenage hearts
That were silenced

The song they introduced
By lending the silenced beats of their heart
Was taken up by millions
To complete an unforgettable orchestra.

Violins, flutes, drums and all
Came together throughout the country
Is it not music to your ears?
The tune of courage
The harmony of millions demanding
Justice, equality, unity
Are they not artists ?
When all their desires
Are for love.

For the love of our country.