By Sachin Singh Solanki
This is where the river made her bed and slept for years before we asked her to leave. She packed her blues in tiny mud suitcases and left without a word. In a few years the settlements sprawled their brick-concrete feet on the fresh Earth she left in her wake; do you know who lived here before we made this land our home. This Terra Nullius. This nobody’s land. This colony. These nations bobbing in a sea of bloodbath. This bloodbath dripping from the sky through acid rain taps. This helpless boat. This home to rivers and forests and furious wild cats that are not here. Let me first tell you about turtles caught in trawls and how walruses climb cliffs before they jump flat on cold stone because of climate change before I ask you something you know about but you feign not to. Now tell me if you know that the poles are melting faster than you will read this poem or whatever this block of word is. I could be exaggerating but do tell and tell me more. Do you know the number of climate refugees the media doesn’t tell you about. Do you know about Kiribati, Vanuatu, Samoa and Tuvalu. Don’t ask me why I just missed my question marks; Maybe I am not asking this time. Maybe I am telling. You. Me. Us. I am telling you, me, us to ask you, me, us how much blood we need to paint our skins with before we sit down to count our sins, count the number of forests we fell, count the number of rivers we smothered, count the number of Orangutans we left homeless and count and count; Tell me if you know about the polar bears. White feathered, white feathered confused, white feathered confused lost polar bears who look at cracked ice and wonder why their mother never taught them to swim like fishes when the white land turns into blue sea. Or fly away like birds to new seas when the old ones die. Do you know how many fishes went extinct in the last decade. Do you know how many decades are left before we are left with no decades. Do you know who owned this land long before we cleaved her skin into tiny bordered patches. Do you know how many street-dogs die every time we raze a town to occupy more land. Do you know how many trees burn. Do you know how much land is left to occupy. Or how much is still floating. Do you know the ocean is rising. Do you know the river is coming back. See, I did it again. Many times. No question marks. No questions. You see that. Maybe I am not asking this time. Maybe, I am telling. You. Me. Us.