Where would my story end?
by Yuyutsu Sharma
Where would my story end?
for Amanda Bhabhi
In the crevices
of a cracked paradise
jolting from
an elastic energy
trapped in
the earth’s sanguine womb ?
A heaven tilted
sideways, the paralytic
face of a hillside
grandma left out in the cold
by dim-eyed demons
of a flailing polity ?
They predict a disaster here,
a future fractured
from the accumulation
of an ocean of a molten mass,
a divine frenzy,
a reversed vision
of the earth’s own unmaking,
retracting herself into an island again
a Jambudeep,
an island of eternal Vedic hymns.
Someday, they say,
the earth will change her side in sleep,
exasperated from
a turbulence in the reservoirs
of kinetic energy,
shaken from a vision of an impending doom,
an Ajeema / a Harati
our primordial mother goddess
of numerous off-springs
burying her own squealing new-born
beneath the weight
of her hefty torso in the whirling
black tunnels of her post natal sleep . . .
Geophysicists, panelists,
prophets of the whimsical West
pundits of the twisted East.
I see them squinting into the fogged holes,
imagining a cosmic crash
in the valley of the Lord himself . . .
But where’s there a way
for me to desert it, and end my grand story,
my Himalayas, my Nepal,
like my own destiny,
a life suspended in mid-sentence
a journey in smudged lanes of century’s crooked sleep,
the broad-chested canyons,
the glaciers melting like tantrik trophies
from the Master of Time,
Padmasambhava’s snow sanctuaries
full of the thawed bodies
of bleary-eyed wanderers reeking of hallucinating yantras,
hubris of consuming
fresher fragments of newer galaxies . . .
What if tomorrow,
what if this very moment
Kailash opens up,
tearing up the carpets of white rabbits
racing along
the green pastures of the turquoise lake,
what if Lord’s own
pinnacle of patience crumbles
and newly found republic
turns into a tiny morsel
in the jaws of a mighty
dragon of an apocalypse ?
Where, I wonder,
then would my story end ?
Who saw it coming?
by Yuyutsu Sharma
Who saw it coming?
A migrant’s song
Who saw it coming
after a weary count of wounds
on reckless rail tracks
as sleep wrestled their feverish limbs
into an early morning sleep ?
Who saw it coming
after a careful count of burnt bread
in the dark hollows
of their exhausted knapsacks
on the full eclipse
of a bleak night ?
Who saw it coming
after miles of walking barefoot
on the flaming tongue
of the forbidden routes
laced with splintered stones
sharp enough to drill a hole
in your Krishna’s nimble sole ?
Who saw it coming
severing motley threads
of their flailing breaths
under the blind stare of a merciless sun ?
Who saw it coming
their meager stocks — charred chapatis,
pouches of moldy rice
sattu of seven cereals,
an ounce
of moth-eaten beaten rice
rotting onions, green chilies,
a pod or two of garlic,
and tiny pudias of sweat-soaked salt
to survive their fearful crusade ?
Who saw it coming
grinding wheels of solid steel
chomping their bony frames
scattering chunks of their mutilated flesh
brittle as branches of a dead tree
their priceless gatheri bundles hollering
million metaphors
of self, soul and salvation ?
Who saw it coming
their lives splintered into multiple pieces
under the threadbare shrouds
woven from spiteful yarns of your designs
darker than the blind night of their lives
darker than the face of the burnt bread
that they had carried
to come alive out of your snare of public lies ?
Who saw it coming
tracks littered with food soaked
in their warm blood unleashed
by your churlish chants and mega-announcements ?
Who saw it coming
worn-out flip-flops on the sullen tracks
staring helpless at the stunned stars
of their aggrieved souls authorizing
a final descent
into the hellholes of their ultimate sleep ?
Who saw it coming,
You saw it coming,
and you, you did nothing about it
Nemesis
by Vijay Seshadri
Your aeroplane is pulling out its stops.
Your aeroplane is growling with its props,
pawing the tarmac with its landing gear,
streaming exhaust. That one sortie is here
that you’ve been fearfully anticipating.
12-o’clock high, the Red Baron is waiting
in a holding pattern behind the sun,
his mind as focussed as his Gatling gun,
inviting you there, up to the skies,
you, his one absent precious prize.
He wants to silence your persiflage,
to put your picture on his fuselage.
He wants his mind relieved of you.
He wants his gun to talk to you,
embracing the murderous dialogue.
He doesn’t care that you’re just a dog.
Dialectic
by Vijay Seshadri
I’m fine with hatred. Pure, precise, self-modulating.
Waxing while the world wanes.
History decrees
that we know it, and Hegel and I
both believe in history.
Hegel and I,
both of us are fine
with hatred. It will work itself out, burn itself out
(Or maybe it won’t.)
What Hegel and I can’t stand
(and chime in whenever you want,
Herr Hegel)
is love.
This is what moves the sun and the stars ?
Please.
“Daddy, carry me.”
“I saved a piece of pie for you.”
Chime in, Herr Hegel,
chime in.