In the guest-house
the four of them were sleeping close to each other.
Bees of sleep hovered and left
finding no flowers on their eyelids.
They have a common destination.
All the paraphernalia for the trip
are stuffed in ‘ethnic-design’ bags.
Now and then they yawn or hiccup
or flip through a dictionary.
The first is an ancient peepal tree with matted roots,
the leaves hanging from it
are pieces cut out of his heart.
His body carries deep battle-scars,
deep-rooted is his grief.
The languorous nights of baul-geet
keep sawing at the flesh of the void—
Fill it up, fill it up, dear heart!
The second is the bookworm.
Endnotes! Footnotes! Quotations
and cobwebs of theory.
Half-perceiving simple folks
see themselves as fools.
Some even turn deaf
listening to their pseudo-intellectual gibberish.
The pedant knows that in this bookish circle
a big zero is swallowing him up.
Knowing his inability
to extract a water droplet by digging a hole
he still floats in a foamy sea
wielding his sword,
shooting arrows in the dark,
occasionally a gun.
The other is himself a cannon.
He is a revolutionary exploding now and then.
Rallies! Slogans! Strikes!
A voice of protest
against injustice and exploitation in the world.
Within parentheses,
an interesting character who loves his comfort.
The novice is excited and restless.
This is his first taste of hospitality
in such a guesthouse.
He jumps out of the window
and comes back elated.
He wants to scream and tell others
about the fountain in his mind.
Sleep stares, astonished,
at his open-eyed dreams.
Oh! They are four poems in the poetry section,
four balloons, or firecrackers,
in a magazine’s festive issue,
or maybe bottles of liquor or a bunch of flowers.
And here I am,
awake in the middle of the night
dissecting all four—
the blood on my fingers!
NOTE
Baul-geet: a genre of folk music that mixes elements of Bhakti and Sufism sung by wandering mystics.
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