Birhampur, 5th August

That was a rainy day too.

He died.

A dark night borrowed rains from the sky.

Did I cry?

No, certainly not

But I ought to

Shouldn’t I?

The running wind blew enroute

The shops in the mart were all closed and mute.

The idiot street-lamps, their eyes dim,

Callously gazing at an old open hood car

That would then carry him.

I couldn’t exhume my anguish,

I was dry

As if all my moan cried by my sister

All my sounds of ache erupted by her.

Rain helped me to be drenched

to mask the drops of eyes

I never give tears to dead

My grief never cries.

We reached Birhampur burning ghat

We need to do a lot to get fire

Pay the cost of flame and fume

Cost of official text of termination

Pay the priest who will pray God

To forgive him for all deeds and misdeeds

while alive, while he was here.

Be a common or a star

one needs to do all these for getting the bed of fire. 

Night never waits long, nor the rain

River starts talking, birds twitter

Someone arranged tea, we started to sip

One brought the news, ‘one more hour’.