๐ย ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ท๐ช๐ฆ๐ธย ๐ฐ๐งย ๐๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ช๐ฏ๐จย ๐๐ช๐จ๐ฉ๐ต, ๐๐ฑ๐ณ๐ช๐ญย 17, 2024, ๐ฐ๐งย ๐๐ถ๐ฎ๐ฃ๐ข๐ชย ๐๐ญ๐ช๐ฎ๐ข๐ต๐ฆย ๐๐ฐ๐ธ! : ๐ย ๐ค๐ถ๐ญ๐ต๐ถ๐ณ๐ฆ-๐ง๐ฐ๐ค๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฅย ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅย ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ช๐ต๐บ-๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฅย ๐๐ญ๐ช๐ฎ๐ข๐ต๐ฆย ๐๐ถ๐ฎ๐ฎ๐ช๐ต.ย @g5afoundation
As I sat in the Black Box
listening to the poet Javed Akhtar
talk about his former homeless life
with mosquitos at Mahakali Caves
as a younger man in the
Bombay of Before Times,
I looked across the room at
my mother and father.
Mother, glowing at seventy-four
with Father, at her side,
holding her small shoes,
as he has for over fifty years
while trying to Save the World.
Life and Times are a package,โ
goodโ things come with โbadโ,
said the poet, and I know this is true,
because I am a contradiction,
a play of Dark and Light -
just like everyone else.
Stuck in the moment
between parents, poet and sons,
(were they home yet?), when a question
from a bespectacled girl absolved me:
What is the role of The Artist
in effecting social change?
To expose your heart, of course,
said the poet, in a heartbeat.
Something ripped you open,
but the words didnโt fall out?
So Neruda gave you a Battle Cry,
a military formation and a hand grenade,
and equipped now, you went to the Others
on the front line, the picket line, onlineโฆ
to make peace, to make love.
[Applause!] โฆSilenceโฆ
Ribbons of screens,
Cascading iridescence,
Illuminate my 37.2 trillion cells,
the space between them, contracting.
I can't save myself all alone!
Naseerโs voice descends from the sky
as we sat there in the dark,
clutching our shoes, holding our breath,
caressing the bricks and mortar
of the mill that was not turned mall
by a woman who could have but did not,
and an actor who neednโt have but did -together.
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