Blasphemy For Beginners

I used a few dangerous words today:

Cow.

God.

Saffron.

Logic.

Reason.

And —

Fuck.

And democracy shivered at the thought

of a poem weaving them together

like they belonged in the same sentence.

Not because I was wrong —

but because I was right

too loudly.

The poem got flagged.

Not because it preached hate,

but because it screamed matters of fact

in a dialect the state doesn’t approve of.

Apparently,

“freedom of speech” comes with

terms and conditions

and a footnote that reads:

“Except when it offends the fragile egos of penises wearing national colours for underwear.”

They said:

“Don't you worry, India is a democracy!”

And I laughed so hard

my copy of the Constitution tore at the seams.

India —

where gods have outlived sanity

and truth has succumbed to rented sovereignty.

Where freedom is antique at a vintage shop

you can admire,

but not touch.

Say “cow” —

and forget science.

This isn’t biology — it’s belief.

Say “saffron” —

and pledge your allegiance.

Don’t you dare call it  regime.

Say “temple” —

and remain a voiceless invertebrate

but most importantly, not a bleeding woman.

Say “fuck”

and suddenly

a country of arts and cultures

couldn't bear the weight of poetry

but heard the echo of disobedience

in four letters.

I’m told I must speak responsibly.

Responsibly means:

blunt out the sharp edges,

fold the truth so small it's illegible,

pad the metaphor like teenage breasts,

and make sure no god feels naked

in my words.

Especially not the ones in the government.

The only problem,

the rather considerable one, 

is that

I am not your rubber poet.

I won’t bend for borders.

I won’t kneel for flags.

And I will not pixelate my rage

just so your democracy

can sleep through its hypocrisy.

You call this a free country?

You fear poems

more than bullets and bombs.

You love speech —

as long as it’s an echo.

You love expression —

as long as it aligns with yours.

Go on.

Flag my poetry.

Mute it.

Shadowban it.

Charge me with hurting sentiments

I never subscribed to —

sentiments that had

the choice to unsubscribe me.

But don’t you dare call it protection

when all you’ve ever done

is cradle the lie

and crucify the truth.

You can censor the poem.

But not the poet.

And not the people

who whisper

into each other’s silenced throats.

Because if your democracy

can’t survive

a fucking poem —

your Constitution missed school

the day they taught democracy.