His frail wife would rise at dawn,
Her aching limbs creaking like old windows
She fought many enemies at once
From anaemia to TB, she was a warrior
Queen of her one-room home with a leaking roof
Their kids were still asleep, lost in a world
Of orchids without walls or guards
Of bakeries without any doors
Of grocery stores without shopkeepers
Like dirty clothes in a laundry bag,
Their thin bodies were tangled together
And shared the warmth and the dreams
Fixing his lunchbox on his rusted carrier,
He would pedal his way to the temple courtyard
To carve something huge to the smallest details,
Finally, he created a whole God out of a stone block
One with meditative eyes, giving hands, and a kind smile
Then, resting his damp forehead on its stone feet,
He begged it for forgiveness for sins he didn’t commit
For some ancient reasons, he didn’t understand
Old customs too, like old habits, die hard.
A week later, amidst loud chanting, drums, and festivities
His creation graced the temple’s inner chamber
Countless fruits, grains, sweets, and flowers
Lay strewn at its pristine, bejewelled feet
Yet, it seemed jaded, like a rich teen in a toy shop
Standing outside of the temple door,
He quietly bowed to it with folded hands
His whole being suffused with reverence
His scrawny kids were dreaming again
She fainted twice in a week and a nearby chemist
Prescribed her vitamin pills and two tonics.
He is again working hard for those
He is creating another bored rich God
In some other holy courtyard.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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