Poetry

It’s neither about
The Wordsworth’s Solitary Reaper
Nor it’s glamorous life
Of Dhoni, wicketkeeper
But it’s about crying of
Beggars and lepers
In the premises of temple
And stretching their bruised hands
For petty alms
Before another beggar.
 
It’s neither in the memory of
Keat’s Endymion
Nor it’s in the memory
Of Tennyson’s In Memoriam
Nor it’s about melodic
And euphonic tone of harmonium
Nor it’s about the altar and pandemonium
Standing on which
Pre-election promises
Are performed by the politicians
Nor it’s about advertising
The product of the skin and face lotion
Nor it’s about
The adventurous voyage
To be set in motion
But it’s about
The exploitation of poverty and prostitution
By public and government institution.
 


 
It’s not about the turn and twist
Produced by detective novelist
But it’s about the temple priest
Who though pretend
To mutter the Gita’s gist
But go on to pick pocket,
Ornaments and watch from wrist.
 
It’s neither about the pain and ache
That I underwent when I saw
A young Indian girl on railway station
Twirling her moustache
And puffing a smoke of cigarette
As if she were blowing a stream of pearl
To give a call of waking
It’s only trailer, many more in waiting
But it’s about the girls below fourteen
Who wash plates
And eat left over meal in canteen.