Art en­gages re­al­ity in this satir­i­cal poem on pre­sent-day so­ci­ety. Mob men­tal­ity is a stark phe­nom­e­non from Char­lottesville in USA where whites wanted to be dom­i­neer­ing over left­ists to Bal­lab­garh in Haryana, In­dia where right wing Hin­dutva zealots wanted to be dom­i­neer­ing over Mus­lims. The young poet looks be­yond the in­ci­dents and per­pe­tra­tors to seek an­swers to this com­pli­cated rid­dle.

Mob Men­tal­ity

I think of the un­named lot
that forms a mob face­less – 
chant­ing slo­gans – pro- or anti-
side “A”, or side “B”,
as fu­elled from the top, ab­solutely
un­known, at­tached through
a hi­er­ar­chy, a string of
fierce con­tacts hurl­ing abuses,
arous­ing a novel sen­ti­ment.

With a sole, shared mo­tive,
a fer­vid pas­sion in the di­rec­tion
of the road cus­tomized for them,
the horde marches ahead,
con­vinced that each of them
will re­turn with hands full, 
un­harmed af­ter the task
they are as­signed is ac­com­plished.

At the on­set, what I feel for them
is anger, ha­tred, a will to avenge
in a sim­i­lar fash­ion, or worse.
But I am pierced in­side when
as their first and fore­most 
char­ac­ter­is­tic, I pick vul­ner­a­bil­ity.

These peo­ple are not hands
which burn, slit, and rape.
They may be the match­boxes, 
kerosene, or at the most, 
swords that tear what­ever comes 
their way, and swords do not think.

Once naked, out of sheath,
on a spree to fin­ish the task
based on marked homes,
typ­i­cal fea­tures, and ap­pear­ances –
all metic­u­lously ex­plained,
they re­turn rais­ing the war-cry.
Who, then, are the hands?
Some swords turn into hands.