Numb

Crimson flowers
Sprout, in splashes of
A calculated violence.
Senseless.

“We can’t go for the movie,
The show got cancelled”
;
Another attack on Delhi.
Or was it Mumbai?

“20 killed!”
“10^th attack on Indian soil this year!”
“What is the Indian government doing?!”

“Oh,” said I.

Seeing me downcast;
“Don’t worry,” he said.

“We’ll fight back”
The television told me so.
“They can’t break our spirit”
Ditto.
“This won’t happen again.”

…

Seeing me despondent still, he
Gives up.
But he doesn’t understand;

I wanted to see that movie.

Over Remembering

Memories,

Like shards of broken glass
Glint under the moonlight
Of amber-stained recollection.

Verdant plains of a gumptious childhood,
Days frozen in carefree innocence.

Memories,
Bring a melancholic smile of reminiscence,
Or
Return to haunt in
Nightmares
That bleed into the day.

…

Scarring or sacred,
Bygone days affect me
Today
and seconds spent in useless contemplation today
Shall glint and haunt me tomorrow.

Society

The silver metal
Of the Metro train
Is stained with excessive humanity
Suffocating and overcrowded.
Sweating and jostling and pushing
And shoving and heaving and swearing.

A seat is to kill for.
Or at least, to knock-over-someone for.

And as I stand and try to bear it all
I notice a squatting peasant
Devoid of etiquette
And common sensibility.
(I mean
Who squats in the Metro?)

And I wage a bitter internal tirade
Against people who don't deserve to live
On account of lacking societal delicacy.

I, on the other hand;
Just because I'm tired
Doesn't mean I'll sit on the floor
And lower myself.
I've resolved to stand for what
Society thinks is proper.

I throw a look
Of opinionated disgust
At the peasant,
And he smiles back at me.

...

No mongrel half-beliefs
To get in the way
Of what will give him
Happiness.