by Rajat Chandra Sarmah
They said
this is your moment.
So we sat—
a few rows in—
watching
democracy
adjust its lights.
Promises entered first.
Well-dressed.
Fluent.
They spoke
in our language—
better than we do, sometimes.
Jobs arrived next—
counted aloud,
like blessings
no one stopped to check.
Cash followed quietly.
No speeches.
Just something understood
without being said.
We clapped.
Not loudly—
just enough.
Somewhere between
need
and negotiation,
we stopped thinking too much
about what was ours
and what was being offered.
The button—
small,
decisive,
mercifully simple.
Press.
Nothing to show later.
Interval.
Lights dim.
Noise settles
somewhere behind us.
When the curtain lifts again,
the stage is lighter.
Fewer promises.
Some things
just not there this time.
What was announced
comes back
“under process.”
What was certain
slows down—
then disappears.
We do not protest.
We adjust.
Survival stretches itself
over the years.
Dignity—
it comes and goes.
Outside,
the posters fade first.
Inside,
something follows.
Next election,
they will return—
with improved scripts,
cleaner numbers,
and our own words
borrowed again.
And we—
seasoned audience,
repeat believers—
will take our seats
before the lights come on.
No one will ask
what the first show changed.
No one will ask
why we stayed.
The applause will begin
on time.
And we will give it—
not because we believe,
not because we forgot,
but because
we have learned.
Rajat Chandra Sarmah is a poet and writer based in India. After a 36-year career in India’s power sector, he now focuses on literary writing. His work explores public memory, environmental crisis, social change, and everyday human endurance. His poetry has previously appeared in The New Verse News and other international journals.
