The Constitutional Pal

Each poem lives on its own page — feel free to browse, cry, rage, share.

Some truths refuse to sit quietly in essays. They rise, they sting, they speak in verse.

This is a collection of poems that accompany my posts, not as explanations, but as echo essays, expand rage, and give voice to what can’t be footnoted. They exist beside the data, the law, and the lived experience because sometimes, we need a different language to carry what facts cannot hold.

Table of Contents

She Invited It? Then Hear This.

This poem is a companion to “When the Law Blames the Victim”, a piece on secondary victimisation and judicial cruelty.

Written: 10 April, 2025

She spoke once, and it echoed in a courtroom
Twice, and it shattered her spine.
Justice was promised in paperwork
But the silence was by design...

It’s 2025. We are still doing this?
Still, she invited it?
Still, the bench leans not on law but on bias.
Still, the survivor is made to carry the crime.

We are tired.
Tired of watching justice contort itself around patriarchy.
Tired of the same headlines, the same pain, the same disbelief.
Tired of institutions meant to protect, instead blaming, shaming, retraumatising.
Tired of explaining consent like it’s a foreign tongue.
Tired of unpacking trauma for those who refuse to learn.
Tired of the silence that follows every scream.
Tired of courts turning backs, of justice stitched with shame, of judgments that feel like second assaults.
We have marched. We have mourned. We have mentored and mothered and made noise.
We’ve built movements. Written laws. Lit candles. Buried daughters.
But the gavel still falls on our voices.

And yet, "She invited it."
These words still spill from courtrooms and comment sections, from cops behind desks, from neighbours whispering behind curtains, from uncles at dinner tables, and teachers in staff rooms.
“Why was she out so late?”
“What was she wearing?”
“Did she fight back?”
“Why didn’t she scream?”
“Why didn’t she leave?”
“Why did she go with him?”
“Why now?”
“Are you sure this isn’t revenge?”
Every question a blade.
Every doubt a dismissal.
Every stare a sentence passed.

We are tired.
Tired of watching survivors survive the crime,
only to be crushed by the cross-examination of their humanity.
Tired of lawyers digging through WhatsApp chats like consent expires in a text.
Tired of headlines that say "alleged" for rape but not for character assassination.
Tired of bail being granted while dignity is denied.

We remember the ones blamed for drinking, for laughing, for trusting, for living.
We remember the girl told not to report because it would “ruin her marriage prospects.”
The child whose story was doubted because it didn’t “sound traumatic enough.”
The woman told it wasn’t rape because there was no bruising.
The queer survivor laughed out of a police station.
The Dalit woman erased from headlines.
The trans person never seen as victim: only spectacle.

This is not just injustice.
It is a systemic gaslighting, a breaking down of spirit, layered with shame until silence seems like safety.

But still, we speak.
We fight.
We name the pain.
We bear witness to each other when no one else will.
To every survivor made to relive the horror in courtrooms, to justify their pain to strangers in suits:
We see you.
To every ally feeling helpless, burning out:
We need you.
To every advocate screamed hoarse from repeating “No means no”:
Rest, but come back.

Because while they say, “She invited it,”
We say: She survived it.
And that should have been enough.

Still, courts speak in the language of shame.
Still, judges become moral gatekeepers.
Still, justice is contingent on how well she performs her pain.
Was she crying enough?
Was she dressed modestly?
Did she close her legs, her mouth, her life?
If not, then she must have invited it.

You want realities? Fine. Here they are:
A survivor walks into a police station at 2 AM.
They ask her if she was drinking.
They ask what she was wearing.
They laugh behind her back, call it “lovers’ quarrel.”
They don’t file the report.

Another girl is raped by someone she trusted.
A teacher. A friend. A cousin.
They ask why she didn’t scream.
Why she went over in the first place.
They say, “That’s not rape, that’s regret.”

A woman’s rapist gets bail.
She gets stigma, threats, silence from her own family.
They tell her to think of her father’s honour.
They tell her not to make it worse by going to court.

A 13-year-old is molested.
The court asks, “Where’s the evidence of resistance?”
She was frozen. Terrified.
But they wanted bruises to believe her.

A Dalit woman is gang-raped.
Her story doesn’t trend.
No outrage. No media frenzy.
She’s not from the right caste for justice.

A queer survivor tells their truth.
People laugh.
Call it confusion.
Call it “attention-seeking.”
Call it nothing.

Do you feel it yet?
This isn’t about what she wore.
This is about power. Control. Entitlement.
And a culture that hates when a woman dares to name what was done to her.

We are tired.
Not dramatic tired.
Not poetic tired.
Bone-deep, soul-rotting tired.

Tired of repeating what should be obvious.
Tired of peeling off the shame others stuck to our skin.
Tired of building from the ruins, again and again.
Tired of hoping the system will grow a spine.

But even in this exhaustion:
We rage.
We write.
We show up for each other.
We whisper you are not alone to those who can no longer scream.
And to every judge, every cop, every bystander who still says,
“She invited it.”
We say: No. You failed her.
And that should haunt you.

To the ones who feel this fatigue in their bones:
You are not weak.
You are not alone.
Your rage is righteous.
Your weariness is proof you’ve carried too much, for too long, for too many.
But even tired hearts can spark revolutions.
And even broken voices echo loud in the halls of power.
So rest, but don’t disappear.
We still need each other.
We still have work to do.

Because they may say “she invited it”:
But we say she survived it.
And that should have been enough.

It’s 2025.
And a High Court judge still says:
“She invited trouble.”
Not the rapist. Not the predator.
She.

What did she do?
She went out.
She met a man.
She trusted.
She existed.

And for that, the law says she invited it.

So let’s talk about what women, girls, queer folks, trans folks invite in this country:
We invite being stared at when we're 10 years old.
Being followed home at 12.
Being touched in crowded buses, temples, school corridors.
By uncles. Teachers. Shopkeepers. Friends.
We invite our first assault before our first period.
We invite silence because our mothers are scared and our fathers look away.
We invite shame that isn’t ours.
We invite being told to forget it, forgive it, swallow it.
We invite questions when we report it.
“Were you drunk?”
“Why did you go with him?”
“Why were you alone?”
“Why are you ruining his life?”

We invite courtrooms that dissect our pasts more than the rapist's present.
We invite being told our bodies didn’t fight hard enough.
No bruises = no crime.
No screaming = consent.
No perfect victim = no justice.

We invite being blamed for surviving.
For not dying.
For living through it and daring to name it.

But here’s what we don’t invite:
We don’t invite rape.
We don’t invite being turned into case files.
We don’t invite society’s obsession with our modesty while ignoring our pain.
We don’t invite a system that protects perpetrators and punishes the wounded.

We are tired.
Tired of your courts.
Tired of your comments.
Tired of hashtags that fade.
Tired of repeating what should’ve been understood decades ago:
That rape is not a consequence of our choices.
It’s a choice made by someone who thought we didn’t matter.

And every time a judge says "She invited it,"
They make that rapist right.

You want to know what’s truly dangerous?
It’s not women stepping out.
It’s a justice system that lets them be stepped on again, and again, and again.

So no, she didn’t invite trouble.
She invited freedom.
She invited dignity.
She invited the right to live without fear.
And you, you shut the door on all of it.

But we’re still here.
Still screaming.
Still not going anywhere.
Because we’ve had enough.

Her voice cracks.
Not from weakness.
But from saying it again.
To the cop. The doctor. The judge. The family. The world.
She says it with trembling hands,
while they hold up her clothes like evidence of permission.

A judge in Allahabad says: “She invited trouble.”
As if consent can be revoked by a neckline.
As if a woman walking freely is a provocation.
As if male violence is a law of nature, and she the fool who forgot to fear it.

The school that asked a child not to tell.
The hostel warden who said, “Girls who stay out late bring shame.”
The uncle who calls her “damaged” at the wedding.
The news anchor who asks if it was “a misunderstanding.”
The aunt who whispers "She should’ve known better."

We are tired of bleeding metaphors into timelines.
Tired of using poetry to wrap our trauma in something palatable.
Tired of having to convince people that no means no.
That rape is not a mistake.
That clothes are not consent.
That being drunk is not an invitation.
That silence is not agreement, it’s survival.

To the ones who say, “She invited it.”
We say: You invited silence.
And we are done serving it.

We’re not asking anymore.
We’re documenting.
We’re naming names.
We’re burning shame down to ash.

You want quiet?
You’ll have to kill the sky for that.

She came forward.
Shaking. Still bleeding.
And they asked her if she’d been drinking.
If she was flirting.
If she said no loud enough.
She survived rape.
But what she didn’t survive was the world that followed.

We live in a country where:
Marital rape is still legal.
90% of rapes are by known men but she’s told not to ruin his life.
Survivors are grilled for years while the accused walk free on “character.”
And “false cases” are the first thing people bring up.

The system is not broken.
It is built like this.

We are tired of teaching “no means no.”
We are tired of painting placards soaked in rain and rage.
We are tired of trauma being turned into “awareness days.”
We are tired of hashtags without consequence.
We are tired of the headlines that forget the names.
We are tired of hope being an unpaid, full-time job.

But here’s what we’re not:
We are not done.
We are not quiet.
We are not going to ask nicely anymore.

To the ones who say, “She invited it.”
We say: You invited rot.
You invited silence.
You invited complicity.
And we are done being polite at the altar of your comfort.

So here’s what we’ll do:
We will document.
We will remember.
We will speak the names out loud.
We will name the judges, the cops, the uncles, the editors.
We will teach our daughters how to burn the shame.
We will teach our sons how to unlearn the world.
We will build a rage that doesn’t need your permission.
We will become the thing you fear most:
Women who have nothing left to lose, and nothing left to explain.

Because from Bhanwari Devi to Gisèle Pelicot:
"Shame must change sides."

Ek Nakabposh NGO

Written: 20 April, 2025

Tagline for the next campaign?
“Empowering voices.”
(But only if they don’t ask for their wages.)

Part 1: Parde Ke Peeche

Mask Mein Nanga Maseeha

Ek nakabposh NGO, naam mein noor,
Par sach toh hai, isse zyada koora kuchh bhi na ho door.
Equality ka jhanda, par aankhon mein dhoondho dhokha,
Inclusivity ka geet, lekin sur sab jhootha.

Haathon mein placard, lekin munh pe silvaton ka mask,
Bahar se saviour, andar sirf ek corporate task.
“Empower the poor,” kehte hain mic pe khade hokar,
Aur andar se chhantte hain resumes: kaun kitna dard bechega behtar?

Hire karte hain unko, jinke zakhm abhi bhi geele hain,
“Tell your story,” kehte hain, jaise trauma ek CV ka hissa hai.
Unke aansuon se likhte hain annual report,
Aur fir dete hain ek thanda sa “payment is delayed” retort.

Dard ka bazaar hai, aur yeh NGO uska mall,
Jahaan empathy bikti hai, par sirf poster ke hall.
Kisi ki maa ki maut, kisi ke rape ka zikr,
Sabko banate hain “impact story”: bas ek aur file mein likh.

Staff chillaata hai: “Salary?”
Jawab mein silence, ya ek Zoom link ki ghoonsi.
“Funds release nahi hue,” kahkar chhup jaate hain,
Par nayi gala dinner ka invite Instagram pe chipkaate hain.

Jinko uthana tha, unse hi lagwaate hain chhat,
Aur jab kaam ho jaaye, toh kehte hain “Good luck, aur ab mat phat.”
Aandolan ka dhanda hai, aur activism ek naukri,
Par sirf unke liye jinhe kabhi chhoo bhi nahi paayi bhookh ki rokri.

Toh agle baar jab dekho kisi ko stage pe roshni mein,
Sochna: kya yeh bhi hai ek nakabposh vyakti kisi NGO ki god mein?

Part 2: “Aur Yeh Raha Nakab Ka Bill”

(aka the HR Email They Never Sent)

Aapko dhanyavaad,
ki aapne apne dard ko pitch deck mein daala.
Your trauma is now tax-deductible
aur boss ke Europe trip ka hawaii sawaala.

Welcome to “Dard Se Dhan Yatra Pvt. Ltd.”
(Previously known as Empathy Inc.)
Mission statement?
"Bech do pain... par branded."

Aap marginalised ho? Toh perfect fit ho.
Apne aap ko thoda aur todh lo... relatable ban jaoge.
“Can you cry during the interview?”
“Can you write a blog post about your abuse?”
Kya tum victim ho with content potential?
Agar haan, toh tumhara sapna hai yeh NGO ka office rental.
With a rebranding of perfect survivor.

Aur suno, salary ka kya hai?
It's “in process.”
Aap samajh sakte ho na?
Funds toh emotional hota hai, delay bhi toh spiritual hai.

“We don’t do this for money,”
kehte hue HR ne diya pink slip,
Kyuki tumne poocha: “April ho gaya, paisa kab aayega, sir?”
Aur woh bola: “We expected more sensitivity from you.”

Oh and the founder?
UN panel pe baitha tha: “Voices from the Margins”
While back home, you were eating Maggi in broken slippers,
email bhej rahe the: “Sir, can I get my pending 3 months please?”

Boardroom mein agenda tha:
Diversity, Equality, Inclusitivity
Par payroll mein tha:
Exploit, Exhaust, Exclude

Har jagah likha: “We are a safe space”
Bas tumhare liye nahi.

(Nukkad Natak ft. Nepotism)
Aur phir aaya ek naya hire.
Friend of founder, cousin of consultant.
CV mein likha tha: “Passionate about socail change”
Par spelling mein galti thi.
Still got the role, kyunki surname tha fancy range.

Meanwhile, tum?
Tum reh gaye, ek anonymous footnote in a grant report.
“Vo ek field intern thi jo chali gayi.”
Kya chali gayi?
Uska jazba chali gaya, roti chali gayi, respect toh kab ka gaya.

Part 3: “Mukt Ka Theka”

(Or: Freedom, Sponsored by Interns™)

Welcome back, doston.
Aaj ka lesson hai: “How to Monetise Misery with a Smile.”

Step 1: Find a village.
Step 2: Find a camera.
Step 3: Find a crying woman.
Step 4: Don’t forget to say “Her voice matters.”
(but mute her mic if she talks about unpaid honorarium.)

(Buzzword Bingo Boardroom Edition:)
Intersectionality
Community-led
Gender lens

“Let’s amplify grassroots voices”
(But only after legal signs the photo release.)

And that one dalit fellow?
Yes yes, he’s on the website.
Black and white filter, smile crooked with hope.
He’s not on payroll.
But he’s in every brochure.

Boli thi ek intern ne: "I speak from pain."
Bola founder ne: “Great. That’ll help us raise again.”
Panel pe baithke bolte hain “Listen to the margins,”
But payroll mein sab privileged hain: safe, urban, English-speaking.
Intersectionality ke naam pe dhanda.
Aur invoice pe likha: “Lived experience – freelance.”
Jahan caste aur class sirf decor ban gaya.

(The Fellowship of the Exploited)
Recruitment drive in full swing:
“We want people from underrepresented backgrounds!”
Translation:
“We want pain that’s raw, real, and ready for display.”

There’s a form for that now:
Q5: “Please describe your oppression in under 500 characters.”
Bonus points for intersectionality.
Extra credit if you cried while typing.

And if you don't perform your pain just right?
They'll say you're not “authentic enough.”

(Donor Dinner Diaries)
Meanwhile in Delhi, the founder sips imported wine.
“We’ve really made impact,” she says, holding up a pie chart
of someone else’s suffering.
That someone else?
You.

You're washing dishes at the office retreat,
Because your “volunteer stipend”
Doesn’t cover bus fare, let alone dignity.

(Curtain Call, But Make It Crowdfunded)
They say: “Change is slow.”
But the rent was due fast.
They say: “Stay passionate.”
But passion doesn’t pay electricity bills.

You entered to change the world.
You left just trying to survive.

But hey... don’t worry.
You’re still in their impact report.
Page 42.
Footnote 7.
Spelled your name wrong.

Part 4: "Truth Doesn't Need a Hashtag – Pardafash Begins"

(aka: The Exit Interview You’ll Never Hear)

Sab kuchh likha tha, strategy decks, vision boards,
"Transformative change," "impact metrics,"
and that sacred line:
"We’re here to listen."

But jab asli awaaz aayi,
trembling, furious, unpaid,
they called it "bad optics."
“She’s being emotional.”
“Let’s wait till it dies down.”
And like that... it did.
Because she had bills.
Because she had a sick parent.
Because she couldn't afford to be "loud."

(Let’s Discuss This Over Coffee?)
Tum complain karte ho?
They give you "space to process."
And a warning letter.

Tum demand karte ho?
They form a “Grievance Redressal Committee.”
(Chaired by the boss’s best friend.)

Tum chhodo?
They replace you with another marginalised hire
crispy trauma, fresh tears, new content.
And the cycle keeps spinning,
like a Ferris wheel of exploitation
sponsored by CSR funds and fake smiles.
Asliyat main: Trauma ki Taskari

(The Receipts No One Posts)
You want accountability?
It's buried under non-disclosure clauses
and NDAs dressed like “policy.”
You want justice?
File a complaint, they’ll say: “That role was never official.”

Because when you're poor,
when you're desperate,
when you need,
your pain becomes their intellectual property.

(Aaj Ka Natak: The Ally Awards)
And the award goes to...
“Best performative ally” for tweeting “Solidarity”
right after firing 3 staff for “budget cuts.”

“Most aesthetic activism” for posting a protest selfie
while their intern fainted from hunger off-camera.

“Lifetime Achievement in Lip Service” for saying
“we center the margins”
while hoarding the mic like it's oxygen.

(Collectivisation Ki Mehngi Keemat)
They organise.
One of them dares to whisper the word: “unionise.”
And suddenly the tone changes.

“If you're not happy, you're welcome to leave.”
As if walking out is easy when rent's due and ration’s thin.
As if people like us, the ones who stitched this boat together,
can just “exit” like we’re in a co-working space startup.

And then they say it.
That holy, gaslighting phrase:
“We're all on the same boat.”

No.
You're on a cruise.
With herbal tea, wellness retreats, and chai served warm at 4.

We?
We're in a broken canoe.
With a hole so wide, water’s above our heads,
and still, somehow,
they expect us to row.

(BOOM: The Farce Implodes)
But farce can only float so long [like farts?]
before the truth weighs it down.

One brave voice posts a thread.
Then another.
Then ten more.
Then screenshots leak.
Then the donors ask questions.

No more hiding behind "woke" logos,
No more “technical issues with payments”,
No more “let’s talk privately”.

The nakab cracks.
The lies stink.
The pedestal? Collapses like a flimsy grant proposal.

So here lies the NGO
that sold freedom, but paid in breadcrumbs.
That hired rage, but muted it.
That commodified revolution
into an invoice.

No flowers.
No tribute.
Just a plaque that reads:
"They said they’d amplify us. We became echoes."

Part 5: “Sab Ek Saath Bolte Hain Toh Awaz Ban Jaati Hai”

(aka: When the Back Office Becomes the Front Line)

First it was one.
One ex-intern with shaking fingers and a locked Twitter.
She posted:
"I was never paid. They said it was a learning opportunity."

Then two more.
Then ten.
Then Slack screenshots.
Then voice notes.
Then rage, raw and real,
threaded across timelines like fire laced through dry grass.

(Whispers Turn into War Cries)
They met in DMs,
in chai stalls,
in WhatsApp groups titled “People who survived [NGO Name]”

They compared notes.
Not just salary slips that never came,
but gaslighting emails,
fake “feedback sessions,”
and those unbearable phrases:
“You’re not aligned with our values.”
“You need to be more professional.”
“You’re being too intense.”

Nah.
They were just done being used.

(The Boat Is Not the Same)
And god forbid someone says: “Let’s unionise.”
Suddenly the office turns cold.
Eyes shift.
Someone from HR coughs out:
“If you’re unhappy here, you’re free to leave.”

As if leaving is an option for those of us
clinging to that next paycheck like it’s oxygen.
As if people like us,
who walked through ten locked doors just to be let into the waiting room,
can just get up and go.

Then comes the sermon:
“But we’re all on the same boat.”

No.
You’re on a cruise
chai arriving on trays,
wellness retreats to “recharge.”
We’re in a boat with a gaping hole,
sinking in silence,
and every time we yell for help,
they toss us a brochure.

(Reclaiming Begins)
One started a Google Doc:
“Know Your Rights: NGO Edition”
Another leaked a funding report:
Where the director’s 5-star stay in Geneva
was listed under “Capacity Building.”

They spoke on podcasts.
They wrote blogs.
One even stood outside the shiny glass office
with a sign:
“You Sold My Pain, Where’s My Pay?”

And suddenly, the donors were listening.
The board members were shifting uncomfortably.
The PR team was “working on a statement.”

(They Stood Together. And That’s When It Happened.)
Emails flew.
Subject lines like:
“Unprofessional Conduct Among Former Employees”
“Breach of Confidentiality”
“They’re ganging up on us.”

Ganging up.

Because when the exploited organise?
It's no longer individual “grievances.”
It's a threat.

When the powerless stand shoulder to shoulder?
The powerful say:
“They’re being hostile.”

When survivors demand justice?
They’re called “a mob.”
Not a movement.
Not a union.
Not a revolution.

Just a problem to be managed.

THE END
So yes.
They were ganging up.
“They’re ganging up,” they said. Good. Let them.

Ganging up to remember they’re not crazy.
Ganging up to expose the lie.
Ganging up to write their own damn narrative
no editor, no founder, no permission needed.

Because when enough of them speak,
the mask doesn't fall.

It disintegrates.
(Nakab gira nahi... ghul gaya hawaa mein.)
Pardafash ho gaya.
Par yeh sirf kahani ka anth nahi hai
yeh toh uska asli naam hai.
Baaki toh bas branding thi.

A Constitution of Breath, Burned and Binding

This poem is a companion to “Fieldnotes on Ambedkar and the Constitution”.

Written: 14 April, 2025

We, the People,
inked our revolution into charters of breath,
affirm the sovereignty of silence and the due process of dreams,
a bridge of fairness barely holding over rivers of power.

Liberty negotiates with reasonable restrictions,
fences built halfway across freedom fields,
the grass greener on the unreachable side,
freedom of speech flowing in rivers dammed by invisible stones,
where silence pools without warning.

The writ of habeas corpus flutters against the iron gates,
cracked megaphones offered to the voiceless,
blown across courtrooms that no longer echo back.
And when they suspend habeas corpus,
it is the legal heartbeat they stop first.

Right to life and liberty stitched together like a broken-winged bird,
with law and dreams, morals and ideals,
flying crooked across partisan skies.

Rights reach toward duties by switching sides,
certiorarified mandamus rotting,
balance of convenience tipping —
forgotten in the thick, bureaucratic decay,
and a crumbling wall still given the benefit of the doubt,
buried beneath calendars swollen with forgotten hearings.

Secularism wears two bracelets:
essential religious practices on one wrist,
constitutional morality on the other,
while temples, mosques, churches crumble side-by-side,
stitched together by constitutional thread.

Directive Principles murmur from the dusty shelves,
unjusticiable but unforgettable —
their spirit fermenting into slogans,
distilling into the quiet fury of preambles and protests,
promises patching the house of rights,
a roof leaking justice, a door rebuilt in every generation,
a house constantly under repair.

Justice, social, economic, and political,
sits beneath a banyan tree, drafting amendments
in the margin of living history.

Equality before law
and equal protection of laws
debate under the rotunda,
where Article 14 drinks from a chipped glass.

The Basic Structure Doctrine is not scaffolding —
it is bone, marrow, and binding glue,
it is the skeleton under the tattered robe of amendments,
where frozen ink battles growing vines.

Emergency is a red stain,
powers triggered,
fire alarms setting the building on fire.
Preventive detention cages built not for crimes,
but for fears stitched in advance.
Smeared across the face of fundamental rights,
and where the bulwarks of liberty cracked,
Part III gasping for breath.

And the lanterns of fundamental rights flickering
across endless dark streets,
each step doubted, each shadow longer than the last.

Amendments file petitions under Article 368,
arguing over width and depth,
over essence and amendment’s reach,
over the reach of living roots.

The judiciary guards the threshold,
polishing a mirror fogged by political breath,
reading the silences between Part III and Part IV.
Unlit corridors where old screams still echo —
the guardian angel's constitutional silences,
inventing dignity from the negative space,
public interest litigations bob like bottles,
tossed into constitutional oceans, praying for landfall.
Sometimes a tide that saves wreckage,
sometimes a flood that drowns its own architects.

Union and State collide inside the Seventh Schedule,
tectonic plates grinding under constitutional pressure,
federal in spirit, unitary in browbeat,
oscillating through residuary powers,
uneasy bridges creak across quarrelling rivers,
cooperative federalism promised but rarely kept,
dust left in pockets
after the harvest of governance
after the feast of division.

Privacy built from shadows and whispered promises,
a house no longer ours, but watched from every window.

Separation of Powers watching from afar,
chessboards cracked down the middle,
pawns warring while kings forget the rules.
Muttering sheepishly, "Three's a crowd,"
then turning back to
the slow, endless, stubborn brawl of governance.

And somewhere in the archives,
rebellion and revolution stand in line,
handed one laminated ID card,
stamped:
Name: Sedition
Blood group: Forgotten
in fading, colonial ink.

Constitutional torts drip from leaking roofs;
mandamus, certiorari, prohibition, quo warranto, habeas —
a constellation of rights scattered across the night,
citizens watching their dreams before sleeping,
and impeachment, an earthquake sleeping
beneath the rotting parliamentary floors.

We the people are not drafters alone:
we are framers, breakers, interpreters,
amenders and dissenters,
we are survivors, sufferers, doers,
makers and moulders,
each judgment an unratified memory.

A Constitution is not a document.
It is a contested terrain,
courtroom corridor littered with sandals and petitions,
maidan echoing the slow collapse of promises,
a living battlefield,
where silence, speech, and survival
contest every inch —
broken voices, tired feet, trembling laws,
roots of a living tree clawing for air,
co-equal claimants
in a country still drafting itself
from breath and ash.

PREAMBLE

Collective amnesia (post-authoritarian recoveries) —
pages ripped from national diaries,
eaten by the wind,
yet still, the ink runs,
yet still, the breath endures.
A trembling republic,
stitching itself awake.
Tomorrow, they will gather scraps:
broken words, battered dreams.
And dare, once more,
to call it justice.
And from the ash,
a silence first.
Then, the old charter stirs,
battered, breathing,
waiting to be spoken again.

Rights-based, trauma-informed, survivor-centric — a three-pronged rebellion against systemic neglect.

This poem is a companion to “Rights-based, trauma-informed, survivor-centric — a three-pronged rebellion against systemic neglect.”.

Written: 29 April, 2025

Justice is not built with clean hands and polite applause.
It is hewn from the hard labor of rebellion —
Rights-based, trauma-informed, survivor-centric —
A three-pronged uprising against the quiet violence of neglect.
We do not whisper justice into existence. We carve it with conviction.

We rebel when we refuse invisibility.
We rebel when we demand remembrance.
We rebel when we declare that dignity is not a favor, but a fact.

This rebellion is not polite. It is not patient. It is not perfect.
It is rising, and it will not wait.

Kabul Streets Swallow Women

This poem is a companion to “Kabul Streets Swallow Women”.

Written: 20 July, 2025

Who will write their petitions of habeas corpus
when the streets themselves devour ink and parchment alike?
When the law books crackle with dust, unopened, unchallenged,
and the courts stand mute as tombs carved in marble silence?

Where is the ink of justice for them?
Where is the holy parchment that binds king and peasant, tyrant and rebel alike?
Did we not once believe that law was more than the letter,
more than robed men in chambers?
Did we not swear that no cage of iron or decree of fear
could hush the voice that says I am?

Where is that ink now; that stubborn, stubborn ink
that once signed Magna Carta under baron’s blade,
that ink that scrawled its trembling hope across the Declaration,
that bled out of Montmartre’s alleys and Selma’s bridges,
that dared to spell justice in languages both broken and bold?

Where is the parchment that does not tear at the whiff of threat?
Where is the hand that dips the quill and refuses to lift it
until every stolen daughter walks freely home
her steps unchained, her laughter legal tender?

The law is not some cold monolith, bricked behind marble columns:
it lives only when we breathe into it our refusal to bow.
It is we who grant it blood and spine and moral sinew.
It is we who must write these petitions,
line by burning line, signature by trembling signature,
petition by whispered petition that grows into thunder.

And if the parchment fails, if the court doors stay bolted,
then may every free street, every free mouth, every unbound word
become their new Magna Carta, their new parchment, their new writ.
For the law is not law if it serves only the tyrant:
it is a song, a promise, a torch passed from the dead to the living.

So bring forth your ink, however scarce,
bring your paper, your tongue, your keystrokes, your restless conscience.
Let the world’s libraries know their shelves are barren
until these petitions stand among them.

Let the streets that swallow women know:
these women are not lost.
Their names are the law yet to be written.
Their steps are the verdict yet to come.
Their breath is the constitution of tomorrow:
unratified but unstoppable.