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the man: he totters homeward reeking of
booze - the cheapest variety
he can’t afford any better
the night sky is ominous – just a sickle moon
his home: a 10x10 sq.ft tin-walled room
in a shanty. Here most men are like him
frustrated – useless – drowning in the bottle
impervious to what goes on in their homes
somewhere a dog barks, a child bawls;
screams... cries... moans... brawls...
the language reflects their surroundings
there’s little for anyone to look up or forward to
his wife: huddled with their three children
hollow eyes concealing a bitterness
that sometimes rims the edges red
the chopping knife: to dice veggies with
the kitchen – or the corner which goes as one –
bare – the vessels empty like their stomachs
only a deep anger simmers in the eldest son
he shares a mutual hatred with his father
they have put up Dr. Ambedkar’s statue
at the crossroads – the man goes up to it
salutes – wobbles - a grotesque grin cracks his lips
he breaks into a song... somebody shushes him
he reaches home... a scuffle... a ghastly screech
racket... confusion... wails...more shrieks... sirens
the ambulance takes away the son
the police haul away the man
choppers can be put to so many uses
(This poem was first published in Narrow Road, Vol.6, Dec. 2018)
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