I know you love to show off your magical powers—
To bring massive upheavals on this earth:
And then justify them with your old excuse—
‘ I have to reduce the burden of Mother Earth’.
Hence the great war of Mahabharata;
Followed by countless, wars, floods and famines—
And now Covid-19,
Your latest arrow from your armory of Maya.
( to add insult to injury you admit you could have prevented all of them)!
I admit and acknowledge:
That you are the Big Boss of the Cosmos—
And you are legally allowed to do anything you want to do:
But please for a change—
Can’t you send us the virus of: love, peace & happiness—
I mean just for a change?
Beloved, day has come to an end—
celestial fire gone over the city fence.
Now the night comes a timely reprieve
for a daily panic:
finicky like the street traffic.
Set down your limbs for solace
and seek a kiss of grace
Say with a faithful chant: for a lonely want—
a confessional prayer
and go over with reverential fear.
Beloved, for a few hours let all doubts subside
and seek shelter in the dark.
Gently go over to sleep;
never mind to-night:
for tomorrow’s chronic rise.
From my diary, November, 1979
obscures likes wingtips
in the acataleptic shade.
coruscate like a tooth in the dark.
are silent in the accrescent cricket wails;
goes rustling through their blind eyes.
feeling my bones fuses sleep.
is stale with nicotine.
flicker hesitantly like
much discussed ideas half-explained.
wobble and long for sleep.
Already the swollen crevices of the heart
flood the pores of veins;
and memory with her illusive taunts
throws fear’s goblet stains.
Outside, winter creeps on soft soles.
The men go about their ways.
Only an occasional exuberance of wind
tells the parting of summer days.
Soon the moon will be a copper coin
sky heavily painted with blood;
and my reverberations like ill-begotten sons
shall tear my bed loose.
On the last ride when siren’s wail
shall sear through the traffic lights,
and I flutter alone within cold walls;
beloved, please be by my side.
let me suck at your breasts
for succor like a child.
let me sleep in your lap,
my head resting with assurance on your strong thighs.
with your vast wisdom
wean out my thread of life
from the entanglements of this world.
show me the way out
from the confusions of dead ends.
stop this incessant ticking
of the metronome of my head.
lift me lovingly like a grandfather
who never asks any questions.
Brilliant like the sun at noon,
and reporting like the nervous telephone;
the latest OCA News lies on my desk
with corporate graphs, minutes, tasks
of winter ahead. And embroidered here
on the last page of the year,
‘Lala’, your obituary is cut
out and zeroed like a bomber’s target.
The little extra I know about you is
accidental, the rest between stodgy covers
like any reference stands
an index for the groping hands.
In a two minutes silence
(mutely staring at my buttons)
I pay an official condolence:
You, who were one of us.