They knocked at my Door.
Was I at the Room –
Staring at the un-rescued body piled up,
Gathered to celebrate the Death of A Civilization?
No, I was counting the number of Documents
Required to prove Octopus has eight legs –
I was travelling on my wheelchair
To search Docility against Evacuation…
I couldn’t. I couldn’t find it –
Amidst lights and camera,
In the Glow of his Glory,
I lost. I lost my tears – torn apart to cry…
Nostalgia was strong enough to choke me to Death –
No, it was not Memory –
What was it? A Smog? A Colored Trust?
Or, a Misappropriated Dream?
I was rushing. Rushing to get a Mask –
Buried beneath the Mask of a Mascot…
Hey, I knew the Mascot!
Wasn’t it the one cut into pieces for claiming life?
Wasn’t it the one chained for speaking the Mind?
I didn’t have the strength to claim Self-Determination –
They did –
They knock at my Door –
Am I at Home-
Looking for the Numbers of Hardwares
Hanging from a Lynch-Tree?
No, I am not.
I am waiting at the end of the Road –
I know they will come,
The Moment they complete smashing the rejected skulls
With their batons of Prediction –
They will Definitely Come…
They will find me there
Standing on the heap of the Garbage
With the Crops of Trust –
They will find me there –
Looking into the Wave of People
Thronged at the Road –
I will collect the flower for the Child
Who will bid Goodbye to the ‘Beautiful’,
Will sing the song of Trust –
Will ask another time –
‘Hey King, where are your Clothes’?
They will knock at the Door –
I, you, we, all who Survived will be There
To sing the Folklore –
Abhik is a Doctoral Research Fellow, School of Liberal Studies, Ambedkar University Delhi
Featured image credit: Pariplab Chakraborty