Followers

Monday, January 5, 2009

The Detritus of Life

Used Boarding Cards,
tucked between the pages
of read and still-to-be read books:
Bookmarks of journeys
performed in vain.

Of times spent in airports,
waiting for departures:
Of comings and goings
through innumerable security checks;
Of flights carrying plastic food
in plastic trays,
Served by Dolly air hostesses.

Life’s detritus accumulated, and then
crammed in a bookshelf.

MUMBAI ON 27/11/2008

Sitting in the back seat of a yellow-black cab in Mumbai;
Hearing the raucous cough of its immigrant driver,
Driven from the ravaged heart of this land
By hunger, exploitation, deprivation:
I follow the triumphal wake of the Mercs, the Hondas,
And the Beamers; their occupants
Oblivious of the insignificant scarab
Burning the asphalt with its bald tyres;
Wondering why their gleaming,
Glittering sight brings not joy,
But despair – a despair so profound
That the beaming and angelic smiles
On the faces of Bollywood stars
Endorsing products from Fairness Creams
To Hair Oils; Hair conditioners
To Air Conditioners, Biscuits to
Baby Food - fails to dispel.

Large Hoardings of larger-than-life Leaders
The rapaciousness in their eyes the artist unable
To hide. One Moses claiming to lead his people,
Into the Promised Future where every taxi cab
And every auto-rickshaw would be driven
By sons of the soil; where every slum would be
Cleared of the immigrant, and replaced by the native;
Where all roadside vendors of peanuts and pizzas;
Maids in the high-rise buildings; watchmen
Of luxurious towers; drivers
Of the Mercs, the Hondas and the Beamers
Would belong to the noble lineage
Of that great warrior Prince who once
Made the Moghul Emperor look stupid
By escaping in a sweetmeat basket.

Honour restored, his sena would rise once more to rule
The roads, the footpaths, and the shanty towns.

While Mumbai was burning, brought to its knees
By a small band of neighbourly terrorists,
Largely unchallenged; purveying death and destruction
These leaders and their senas,
Safely ensconced in their barracks, behind sandbags,
Plotting their next attack on the unarmed and the
Underprivileged. The enemy is not the terrorist from
Beyond the borders, but the native who divides;
Religion, caste, creed, language, all are tools for him
In pursuit of Power, Pelf, and false Prestige.