His lusty shrieks crack the dawn.
Vehement the infant’s protest
At being wrenched out
Into a cold and desolate wasteland.
From the pain-wracked corner
His mother allows a wisp of a smile
To flicker for an instant.
No more will fingers point at her.
Her eyelids droop In a slumber
She had sought in vain till then.
And the business of Life goes on.
Temple bells peal out
Slicing the clamour of the bazaar.
Devotees throng the steps
Craning to glimpse the deity.
Caste bars their entry.
Only the MP in white is allowed in.
Obsequious priests fawn at his offerings
Sanctified by the blood and tears of his electorate.
As he turns to wave to the crowd
A sharp stone arcs and plunges
To cut open his big toe and he cringes.
Batons flash and slash the mob.
It runs helter skelter.
And the business of Life goes on.
Conches herald the setting sun
Drowning the weak cries of the leper
For a few precious drops of water.
The world hurries past the dirty bundle
Intent on unknown destinations.
Night falls and a drunk stumbles
Across the bundle now cold and stiff.
It rolls down the river bank.
Death brings each to the same brink.
The waters of the sacred river part
In impartial acceptance, as always
Of fresh blossoms and putrid scum.
And the business of Life goes on.
All Rights Reserved. Copyright@Sutapa Basu, 2015
This poem was published in a poetry collection titled Kaafiyana
