I used to think fear is strange until I realised it doesn’t exist.

I have always believed that freedom lies in controlled expression. Everything uncontrolled is just anger and rage and chaos I stay away from. Did I forget to tell that I am a Clown and this isn’t a joke? Clowns think before they act and speech is their enemy.

The first day I performed, I was afraid audience won’t be able to contemplate my act. After all, we have always buried things that bugged us with laughter and taken refuge in accepting things that don’t affect us directly. While they were talking about the Syrian crisis, families were being destroyed in their state and we all cannot let these things affect us. We have a circus to run and children to teach; revolution has kept me waiting since forever anyway.

On nights when I read poems I had written when I was young, I wonder where has that rage disappeared. The ones who fought for freedom were rewarded with partition and universities in this country are asking for freedom again. Nothing has changed. It has always been this way. They force anger into ears that don’t listen and expect another revolution from leaders who feed on lies. And one day, they stop screaming, they stop reacting; they compromise.

Maybe, it was in this chaos of aggression and cowardice, judge and culprit, police and politician, revolution and stagnation, I decided to be a clown. To wear clothes that make you laugh and perform acts that make you cry, to stay silent and be a reason for anarchy. And if not successful, I will at least receive the pleasure of giving you some sleepless nights and maybe you will stop ending discussions with ‘machis hogi kya?’(matchstick?)

PS: if you like this post, there is something I want you to see. I don’t know if or not you have heard hindi poems, but here is one that inspired me to write it.

It’s a beautiful poem and has been beautifully narrated. Give it a shot.


7 thoughts on “Clown

  1. Nice one.. Very well written. Here are some lines from my new poem:
    कई पौधे जो पनपे थे
    बरसों की मेहनत के बाद
    झूमते थे जो हवाओं के साथ और
    नाचते थे जो बहारों के साथ
    एक पल में यूँ उखड गए जैसे,
    पनपना ही था सबसे बड़ा पाप .
    Read the full poem on my blog.

    Liked by 1 person

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