Since morning
Four times have I been to the terrace
Twice to the porch
About a hundred steps have I walked in the lobby
Once or twice, I have peeped
Out of the gate too
I am tired
A tub filled with lukewarm salt water
And I sit dipping my feet in it
Suddenly,
in the mind, grow
many feet
I watch closely:
They are swollen,
Heels cracked,
Blood oozes from the ankles,
The nails
As a result of stumbling,
Are broken, it seems
In every single step,
A shriek is heard
The feet in such bad shape
But why do I not feel the pain?
Yes, yes, why do I not feel the hurt?
These are not my feet
My feet are in the lukewarm water
Having walked the terrace, the porch, the lobby,
Tired,
Lazy
These swollen ones,
With cracked heels,
blood oozing from the ankles,
broken nails,
Whose feet these are?
Broken, for lack of jobs,
Due to shut factories,
Due to extinguished kitchen fires,
Carrying their houses on their shoulders
Of the people returning home,
of those, in the closed rooms,
who refuse to die bit by bit,
of those cursing their fate,
of those blaming it on the governments,
of those bent on covering thousands of miles,
On foot, out of stubbornness,
These feet are!
These are not my feet
My feet are the ones dipped in
lukewarm water!
The Strange Death Parade
I sit at home
Books
TV
Phone
My own garden
A cup of tea
To kill my time!
Talking to mother and father
And wife and daughter,
desperate to overcome the feeling of captivity,
I sit at home.
I sit at home
My feet are revolting
Start walking by themselves
To reach some Chinda, Keepa, Lachhu
And Raami home.
Feet have no eyes
No mind either
They just search the ground
Trying to find a route
That, for feeding the stomach
For fuel for the kitchen fire
For daughter’s school fee
Those have turned migrants
In their own country
Within their own country, turned alien,
Dissolve by the minute,
Die bit by bit,
Looking at the sealed gates
Of the factories,
Cry with eyes turned dry,
Long for the walls of their own houses,
Yearn for their homes to die in,
the Budhiya, the Hori, the Hamid, the Halku -
I can, Somehow, transport home
But these are my feet,
Feeble like me,
They stop midway,
Start giving in while I walk
On these feet, walking,
Budhiya, Hori, Hamid, Halku
Fall head-down!
On a national highway,
Their heads hit the road,
Turning its grey-black to red:
My feet get sodden in blood.
I get chills sitting at my home
I ask myself a question,
Repeatedly,
Why is the color of blood
only red?
Transformation
I have tarried a bit;
To my speed,
I have put a break
Around me,
Along with the strong gusts of wind,
The trees dancing, I watched closely,
As if they were celebrating
rebellion
My entire being
rejoiced
Just a while before
I was getting irritated
With myself
With my engagements
With my cohorts
I was getting uncomfortable
With my boss’s behaviour
With my children’s demands
With, from the bathroom tap,
the water dripping
With, of the porch, the fused bulb
How worried I was
For the son’s career
For daughter’s, in a good college,
Admission
For my own health
Everything is just as it was
The house
The family
The office
The cohorts
So are
The concerns
The troubles
The worries
Nothing at all Is sorted yet
But watching the trees dance,
My conscience
Is dancing
Have started walking again, laughing,
On my journey,
Feeling refreshed
Against my life’s odds
I myself have to stand up
And win
I eagerly wish
I eagerly wish
To throw away
The chains
That time has put
Around my feet
Remove,
toss aside
These blinkers from the eyes,
picked up from the neighbourhood
The fears stretching cosily in the heart,
That, bit by bit,
Break me down,
Should vanish
The weight on my body,
Of responsibilities,
Hurl away,
And come out victorious
If drum be heard beating
I, too, become active
The movement of the feet
Should turn into Tandav
Let all eliminate -
the surroundings
Break, they all -
The limits and the boundaries
My vision
Should go beyond the distant horizons
I wish so, really,
To be free from my own self
The trapped worker
I, trapped in the room,
Am fighting with myself
Longing to witness beautiful sights,
My eyes, I rebuke
Salivating for taste,
My tongue, I lick
Stopping my feet craving for travel
by shuffling them up and down
Inside the closed room, I am
Churning my own self.
On the screen
The dance of death
Humans turning into numbers,
the ticking of the
calculator of corpses
The music player
Tired of playing sweet melodies
Has started screaming
The books, too,
Now feel drowsy
The phone held in my hand
Feels heavier for my capacity
The engagement of counting the logs, too,
Has been compromised by the concrete ceilings
Of the journey to the inner self,
there is a limit
Man can also mislead
And converted into a robot, I,
With closed eyes
And shut ears
Write my diary
Wake up every morning
And schedule myself from a new perspective
Afterall…
I, too, wish to live!
This much is enough for today
People are on the roads,
Gathered
Holding hands with one another,
On the roads, are people,
From the bombs of tear gas,
coming from the front,
Protecting each other
Braving the showers of water on their bodies,
Faced with attack by rods from the uniform,
Shielding one another,
On the roads, are people
What a beautiful word it is - ‘people’!
To the policeman showing a rod,
Offering a red rose,
Laughing,
Dancing,
Singing,
In their eyes, dreams of the new world, exhibiting,
Girls, too, are on the roads
Nothing else has happened yet
Only, of these, struggling on the roads,
youth, middle-aged and old people,
Fear has been overcome,
Today,
This is not insignificant at all
They have no fear
They have no caste
They have no religion
This is enough for today
To have understood that
The land is the people’s
And theirs is the time, too
Power
Listening to the news,
I laugh aloud
My mother, in the kitchen, baking rotis,
Gets scared,
Gets confused,
Asks me what has happened
I scold mother, saying,
“Nothing has happened to me!”
The wrinkles on her face
Get more intense
And her sadness, more deep
While roti is being served on my plate
Mother’s trembling hands, I notice,
Then, that power imposed on the mother,
my own,
I feel sorry for
I try to make sense
That amongst all the vulgar news,
Of these channels,
Dancing to the tunes of power,
The ones making the kings into Gods,
What is the mother’s fault?
Feelings
When had Hashim
Crossed the desert
To write the story
Of Sassi’s blisters
It is not necessary
That you too, on scorching sand,
Shall start walking
There’s a price for experience
The deadly cut of the sword on the body,
Only a fighter, laughingly,
Can turn a blind eye to
Witnessing that very same cut,
Some spectator’s incessant
Tears might break out
Feelings have their own significance!
Bloody War on my forehead
When did I wish to fight
I rather wanted,
On winter evenings,
Taking sips of tea
To be lost in some line of a poem
And dance along with
the nuances of
Rahat Fateh Ali Khan’s singing
During the nights,
Taking the wife and children
In my arms,
Conversing little nothings,
To live life in eternal bliss
I had some tiny dreams,
A few insignificant ambitions,
Bits and pieces, my needs,
For meeting which
I had to go to work in the mornings
And return home in the evenings
For a better future,
Day in and day out,
On the wrinkled face of father,
Which moved like the wheel of a cycle,
I wished to furnish a smile
When did I intend to fight
Everything
Does not happen as per our plan
When, to fulfil petty wishes,
I had to loot the wishes of another,
To write happiness
on the faces of my people,
I had to scratch the faces of others,
To win my own happiness,
I had to write a tale of treachery
Then I comprehended that
One may wish it or not,
But on their forehead,
The battle is engraved
Like destiny.
However much they may
Try to escape notice,
Right from the front,
Does the battle meet them
Without facing which,
Then, there can be no way out
Yes, I had not wished to fight
But now, it shall not do
To not engage in the fight
Therefore, from this war, I can’t escape
For the security of my petty dreams,
For the safety of my little desires,
shall not turn my back to this war.
I shall fight
We shall fight
Gauri Lankesh
On your murder,
I can feel sorry
At least
Because
Your murderers
Are far away from my city
Therefore, much,
I fear not
Yes, around me too
The ones with pens,
To silence,
The weapons of terror
Have been used
Many a time,
I wear silence, every time,
Because
Murderers, usually, are
Close by.
To hide your own life
Too, is necessary.
You sitting somewhere far, O Gauri!
On your murder,
I can at least feel sorry
Dreams never die
I wanted to fight…
They chopped off my hands
I wanted to speak,
They sewed my tongue
The lustre of my eyes
Used to dispense light,
They took them out
What else can they do?
They don't know
I, still, am
Very dangerous
I can still have dreams!
Translated by:
Eesha Narang
Assistant professor (English)
D A V College Abohar
Harmit Vidhiarthi's poems leave a lasting impact through their unflinching examination of privilege, resistance, and moral responsibility in times of crisis. He capture not just the visible suffering of common man but the psychological terrain of those who watch from safety.
Harmit Vidharthi's greatest influence lies in its challenge to the reader's conscience. Vidhiarthi refuses to let us remain comfortable spectators. Through poems like "Feet" and "The Strange Death Parade," he forces an encounter with complicity—showing how someone's comfort is built upon others' pain. This is poetry that demands self-interrogation rather than self-congratulation.
The influence of these poems extends beyond their immediate context. They speak to universal questions: How do we live ethically in unjust systems? When does silence become complicity? Can personal transformation lead to social change?
Vidhiarthi's poetry insists that awareness itself is a form of responsibility—and that even when our hands are cut off and tongues sewn shut, the dangerous act of dreaming remains possible.
Really, Harmeet Vidharthi is a renowned poet and thinker from Punjab. He strikes as a kind of ascetic, observing the world's hustle and bustle from a distance. Sometimes, I detect a hint of sadness in the smile that plays across his face. He writes poetry in attempts to reavel or conceal his emmotions. We are delighted to share some of his works in ' The Swan'.
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