Silence is Golden

We, the powerful
Have always spoken:
"Silence is golden."
Of course, we mean
The rishis, the sages,
And the spiritual heights of snowcapped Himalayas.
The silent revolutions
Of passive resistances
Heard in thundering claps
Recognized as sacrifice
Of the slapped Mahatmas
Who showed the other cheek
In slow, performative turns of their faces
Watched and applauded
By the whole world,
Including, even that hapless slapper of his face!

We, the powerful
Have always spoken:
"Silence is golden."

But, is the silence golden
For a raped wife
Whose husband thrusts an
Insecure manhood
Into the tired and disgusted
Depths of her daily life?
Will her showing the other cheek
Make her a Mahatma?
Will her husband crumble
In his own guilt?
Will the nation stand gaurd
Over that motion and applaud
Through reels and reels
Of black and white silent films
Which a coca-cola sipping
T.V. watching youngster
Is forced to watch
During breaks
Between India vs Pakistan matches?

A small time thief
Living next to the city's garbage heap
Making small change picking pockets
Or, allowing the lustful wayfarer
Small services like a hurried scramble
Behind the garbage heap.
She, whose only weapon is her irritating wail
And her sharp words
Which smell to us like the heap
Under which she sleeps.

Is her silence golden?
Of course, it is...
For us...
We who endlessly worry
About getting Opal Mehtas
Study in Harvard...
We, who never see
that the ragpickers of our
Sanitized lives
Also speak...


And we who never see that
If theY cannot Spivak
Like some of us...
It is because
We have hoarded their words...

Let us change the proverb now

"Their silence is golden for us!"