THE FOLLOWING POEM BY RHEA GUPTA OF NEW DELHI WAS SELECTED IN THE SHORTLIST OF WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020 AND WON TEN THOUSAND RUPEES
I access the apocalypse
through the guard
of screens;
a labyrinthine virtual insanity.
I exit multiple tabs
of reality
with one touch
I order around
with one click
I mindlessly scroll
past news articles
living through my black mirror
as a passive,
ever-ravenous consumer,
my reality is governed
by reductive, condensed headlines,
dehumanizing numbers,
graphs and pie-charts.
I navigate
through a capitalistic jungle -
hissing coils
of social media advertisements,
spider-webs
of IDs and passwords,
insect-like buzzing
of text messages in chat boxes,
a torrent
of OTPs,
rabbit holes
of online propaganda;
my world is a whirlpool
of alphanumeric seductions
and blaring rhetoric -
“We are all in this together”
Are we?
Easing into the sheer abnormality
of this ‘new normal’
seems smoother
on a Saturday evening
with a piping hot pizza slice
between my moisturized fingers
and my air purifier
softly cooing in my ears
as my house-helper sweeps
leftover crumbs off the floor.
Escaping the horrors
of a global pandemic
only takes a split of a second
and the soft tap of my fingers
against my remote control or
my cellphone or
my laptop
or I turn up the radio
in my car
as I rush past
the ribbed-pot-bellied
lying on the pavements, zombie-like;
the music drowns out their silent screams
and the stench of decay
floating through the air.
I conjecture
they despise me,
as they tap their dry fingers at my car windows
for a couple of pennies
to get through another night,
or perhaps
they’d give away everything
to be who I am.
I’m both Satan and God in their eyes.
I’m both a detractor,
as well as
a beneficiary
of this gaping divide.
The plague
is in the system,
in my system,
in everything
I see,
touch
and consume.
This contagion
renders invisible
the social distance
between the classes
in the minds of the wealthy,
whose ignorance and avarice
no sanitizer can deterge,
whose hands
no soap can rid
the proletariat’s blood and tears of,
whose bank balances continue
to skyrocket
faster than the pandemic cases
as they transmit the virus
of exploitation
through their masks
of online donations
and exhibited philanthropy.
I wonder
if there’s any pharmaceutical company
developing an antidote
against this universal pestilence,
thriving
on the dehumanization
of the necessitous.
I wonder
if my lyrical criticism suffices
in fighting off the infection
of consumer culture
contaminating my head.
I wonder
if I’m any different
from those
I showcase contempt towards
as I type away elaborate words
on my laptop,
in my air-conditioned room,
with a belly that’s more than full,
in a language accessible only to the privileged.
I wonder
if my wonder is substantial enough
to save a world
afflicted by hierarchies.
I wonder if
“we are all in this together”,
are we?