Live From Lok Kalyan Marg

The story, reported one way,

and then passed down, retitled.

Media outlets – family endeavours.

News stories – political ploys.

Call it what you want and

they’ll print what they hear.

Papers are dogma first,

toilet paper second. Can you

smell the difference? Bodies

rot quicker than we stir

from the couch or

change the channel. Lay

flowers at the grave, each

petal an epitaph for free press.

Here lies the old news, the

small news, the real news, the

unpaid news. Little ants who

circle the stink of Big Media,

prime time an open wound.

The story, regurgitated,

forwarded, or livestreamed,

it remains the same.

A barrage. A downpour.

A conversation with agape

mouths and dry throats.

Silence is nowhere to be found.

[Note: The World Press Freedom Index for 2022 noted that “…press freedom is in crisis in ‘the world’s largest democracy.’” Soon after, I read A Time Outside This Time by Amitava Kumar, which offers a creative mediation on living in a world where the line between fact and fiction is drawn in sand. Together, they inspired this poem.]