The ferryman on the Dal
berates the mercenary wind
for freighting back and forth
the reek of death. His cap of mist
is the colour of exile, his voice a wail
amidst the gunfire pouring across time
from all directions at once.
Beneath the canopy of his shikara,
trembling in the rough hands of cold
even with its floral-print curtains all drawn,
huddle the ghosts of yesteryears,
their names archived only in snow’s foolscap,
their memory a dagger
of ice melting into fire in nerve centres.
He rows past the detritus of twilight
and lovers’ promises of eternity,
lisping a prayer for the Dal
dressed in grief’s ill-fitting gown,
the necklaces of ripples too gaudy
and heavy around her neck as on a bride
jilted on her wedding day. He sticks
his oar into the water’s feverish mouth,
watching with dried eyes
the mercury of chaos shoot up
the blood-tinted column of bigotry.
He carves his own epitaph
on the water’s vast tombstone
as night comes stomping through the grass
with a curfew on dreams.
***
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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