We live in blood-nations. Blood, irrespective of whether it’s thicker or thinner than water, binds and blinds us into collectives. Countries, like human bodies, drip blood mostly from their margins, the edges of where they cease to be. In ‘The Tin Trunk’ of this issue, we look at two places from where we have been bleeding without bandages – Kashmir and Manipur.
First, the blood clots. Rahul Pandita writes about how his book, Our Moon Has Blood Clots, came to be, and in this precious essay, touches upon the fine subject of how violence leads to the birth of writers. Accompanying this is Ashish Sharma’s photo-essay on Pandits in Kashmir.
Then there’s the blood on foreheads, as there is on Irom Sharmila’s in the cover image of this issue. ‘A rain of blood/ over those soldiers of hell,’ writes K Satchidanandan in his poem about Sharmila, ‘Yes’.
Blood and the kinship of violence. Che. Metaphors and murders and their easy alliances. Kishalay Bhattacharjee finds Che in Paona Bazar. An excerpt.
Anirban Bandyopadhyay travelled to Manipur twice – first, to a graveyard where India is buried every day, and then with Kishalay Bhattacharjee’s book. Here is a record of those journeys.
‘Blood soaked streets’, ‘blood soaked body’ – Ronid Chingangbam, in his now famous song, ‘Your Constitution Has Nothing For Me’, reveals the blood in our constitution and the constitution of our blood.
We drink blood while watching television every evening. Bad Blood. Good Night.