By Yash Pandit
They say a green king ravaged the saffron land,
Centuries before the birth of my city.
Tore a blue man’s house down to build a dome,
Say saffron historians aghast in my city.
Vallabh – the rickshawallah – says it’s preposterous,
Why would men kill for God, in my city.
But no – centuries later, saffron men tore down the dome,
Tremors could be felt under feet in my city.
Babri – Muzaffarnagar – Godhra – Dadri,
The quarrel of colours has bled here too, in my city.
Saffron cuts green; Green slices saffron.
But humans mostly bleed red, in my city.
In the winter of 2005, a
sickness filled mother’s lungs
with water. Leaving me
at the mercy of Father’s
omelette and chapatti; he said,
“We have to learn to live this way.”
He trembled more than I at nights,
and in the mornings he left with swollen
eyes; a man without hope is a man
who has died; I see Mother weeping
on her knees. Her scarf undulates and
I rise through the twilight holding it;
I recede into myself. Nothing could harm
me. Days and nights blur into one
seamless expanse; I paint myself
with its pallor. Months later, as I
begin my descent, hospital corridors
pull me back to reality; My strength
collapses; Death hides under a veil.
“Your mother is fine,” the nurse says,
“She has been reclaimed.”
At home, she kisses Father.
“Here is our summer of resurrection,”
She smiles, “You are Lazarus.”
“Let us find a name for me.”
Yash Pandit is a 12th grade commerce student from Mumbai. He began writing on an old typewriter inspired by the Beats. Apart from reading and writing, Yash also takes part in typewriter poetry gatherings.
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5 Responses to “Two Poems”
Powerful and moving words. Love the picture of Marine Drive that brings nostlagia back. I was staying there:)
Nice poem yash.
Nice poem yash