COVID’s Witching Hour

With the COVID pandemic having convulsed the globe this year, many like myself are still coming to terms with the new norms of life that have been imposed upon us. For an outdoorsy person such as myself, the quarantine period has taken a big toll. I still tend to take the optimistic view that we should soon conquer this debilitating virus, however more importantly the life lessons it has given us are worth pondering and introspecting.

I try to engineer the slightest excuse

To wander outside

 

Exploring well-rehearsed excuses

And errands that I have refused to perform

In all these years

Take grocery shopping for example

 

Whenever I step outside,

A flex board outside

With letters emblazoned in alarming red

Blare – “Stay Home. Be Responsible.”

 

My conscionable self-retreats home-ward

But my heart isn’t appeased

 

My fidgety fingers and shuffling feet

Need action

 

The house, feels like a prison cell

The same four walls that guarded and nurtured me for 3 decades

Arrest my presence

 

I switch on the TV in sheer boredom

There is only one thing being talked

 

News channels, sports channels, vernacular programmes,

Hackneyed soap operas all are centered

On one grotesque theme -

The theme of the hour

The idiot box is gravid

With COVID-19

 

Death, doom and destruction

Foretokenings and instructions

Are all that are being purveyed

 

I switch off the TV and head back into the bed room

Scrolling down, the over-wrought mobile

For new sources of divertissement

 

The Instagram memes are only a temporary pain-killer

Facebook has been employed ad-nauseum

I need one ultimate cure, a panacea

To wash away the ennui

 

Till the time we can step our toes

Into the waters of normalcy

 

Till the time we can proclaim

The sky is ours again

 

Till the time

Life becomes life again

 

Till then we will do what we can

Contribute in the slightest possible way

To tear away the pandemic nets

That have been cast upon us

 

Corona is basking in it’s witching hour

But this too shall pass

We will do what is in our power

To end this impasse

 

 

Pluviophile

As many would readily admit, one of life’s sound pleasures is to wake up on an early rainy morning, with the intention to head outside for the much disliked yet indispensable routine of exercise, and find a genuine excuse handed on a platter to go back to sleep.

Nimbus Clouds in the morning,

Mask the touch of the sun.

The gargle of the sky stirs me up,

Pipping my alarm to the waking post.

But this time I don’t clear my misty eyes.

 

Deliberately avoiding instinct,

I walk up to open the windows,

To see the sheeting rain,

Clattering on the window panes.

 

As the algid wind blows in,

I turn my eyes towards you.

You, who lies in deep slumber,

Dreamless like a baby.

It would be a sin to shatter

Such tranquility.

 

Every morning we find an excuse,

To resist waking up.

But still do by virtue of quotidian discipline.

But today my girl,

An excuse is knocking at the door,

And waiting to be availed.

An excuse to renege on our morning promise

Of sauntering out for our brisk spiritual constitutional.

 

I draw up the blinds, and close the curtains,

And tune down the sound of growling rain into

Loving whines.

 

I tuck in between the sheets,

And switch off the alarm clock,

A few seconds before it tinkles out

Its rousing summons.

 

I place your arms on my chest,

And close my weary eyes,

Letting the soporific pill

The somniferous rumbling of distant thunder,

Lullaby us,

As I slither back,

To join you in the Arms of Morpheus.

 

 

Tombstone Piledriver

Much of my early teen years were spent lapping up every minute of post-school WWE entertainment on TV with relish. Those were the days when the matches broadcast on Smackdown, RAW and Heat were the subject of hotly contested school debates, passionate adulation of our favorite stars, and animated card games. ‘Chest 57 inches, clash!’ Does it ring a bell somewhere!?

It took several more years when the ultimate truth dawned upon me that the entire farce was a neatly packaged dose of entertainment rigged from the very start, its organizers were shrewd businessmen and the stars themselves were excellent actors.

One of the few greatest thrills,

Of our juvenescent boyhood,

Was primitive yet iconic.

 

The ‘Deadman’ wakes up alive from the coffin.

The ‘Caverner from Death Valley’

7 foot monster, whose eyes

Blares death and destruction.

 

He pulverizes the opponent,

Picks him up with ease,

Inverts him,

And locks his head between his knees.

 

Sends flames shooting out of his eyes,

With a death stare.

Bang!

Tombstone Piledriver!

 

Epic commentary ensues.

The Undertaker’s Dead Man Walking theme

Reverberates around the stadium,

As waves of frisson ripples through the spine.

 

A classic 90’s kid’s moment of thrill,

When we believed, all that

Precipitated on the great stage of WWE.

Was real, unplanned and not show business.

Pizza

In this entirely fictive poem, I have tried to put myself in the shoes of a middle class family teetering on the brink. Whenever it dangerously angles towards a dysfunctional collapse, Pizza comes to the rescue. The protagonist pays unreserved reverence to this Italian dish for keeping them together. But the trained eye should discern a thinly veiled underpinning that it is the smaller moments in life that are to be relished the most.

The only time my family never fought

And the air was never overwrought

With tensions and the house was never riven

With problems, and when its occupants actually tried to enliven

The usual truculent mood, was the occasion

When we ordered Pizza from Domino’s

A quarterly luxury to our family’s humble ration.

 

On these days, mom and dad took a mutual rain check

On unfinished fights which otherwise tantamounted to a train wreck

My mom - Her principal complaints were manifold

Her single-handed management of an unruly household

The chores, which signified her stellar stewardship

But one that lacked support from her spouse

In this battle of one-upmanship.

 

The male half of the equation

Had its fair share of complaints without equivocation

Working day long hours on official demand

And then moonlighting as a frazzled father and husband

Was intensely exhausting

But offered a fitting rebuttal

To my mother’s accosting.

 

However on this day,

Nobody wished to inveigh

Or air our dirty grouse

Sibling to sibling, spouse to spouse

All we would care

For, was this one meal

To savour the gastronomical affair.

 

The pizza delivery boy

Would come bearing the circles of joy

This was the only time when my mom would splice and dice

The pizza sectors equally, neither me nor my brother would attempt to prise

The bigger piece, for there was no bigger piece

The slices tenderly and equally apportioned

With mother’s love and sprinkled with a burst of cheese.

 

As the family sat round the table

And put on a brave front, showing we were able

To ward off the Damocled sword of dysfunctionality

That circled over our heads in perpetuality

Oh you felicificative delicacy from Italy!

We thank you for binding us together

Through these days of golden anomaly.

 

At the Hustings

In a country where elections can be won through sheer money and muscle power, it is indeed sad that the electorate can be easily brainwashed into accepting bribes of all tangible and intangible hues to keep them in power. Power and pelf have replaced performance and planning as quintessential tools to winning the popular vote, but more importantly this is a lamentation of the loss of integrity and rectitude in our society.

It was the onset of yet another spring

But this year was different

The air had a distinct sting

A reminder to change and reorient

Yes, here came again the quinquennial event

The state assembly elections

Democracy’s test of conscience if it is to be meant

Where the citizenry had one lone shot at course corrections.

 

The sleepy little hamlets that lay at the foothills

Of the magnificent Western Ghats

Ushered in the thrills

Of the new potential upstart

A youngster, an IAS and teacher by heart

Who came up in life by virtue of toil

Was sincere, honest, intelligent and smart

And importantly was a son of the soil

 

Tired of yet another lustrum

And yet another disastrous tenure

These little hamlets, presenting a tiny simulacrum

Of state-wide consensus could no longer endure

And pinned their hopes on this amateur

To thwart the incumbent

MLA, which seemed to be the only available cure

In short, for change the people were hell-bent

 

Day by day the newcomer grew in strength

He made all the right noises

He toured his constituency across its length

And breadth, pressed flesh and listened to voices

Offered solutions and waxed eloquent on the importance of choices

While the veteran incumbent continued to lag

On the trail, short by several paces

But deep inside he knew the thing was in the bag

 

Three weeks prior to D-Day

His claque who had gone to take stock

Said that it appeared he no longer held sway

With the masses, the newcomer was the talk

Of the towns and villages, cementing his place like a rock

Alarmed, the MLA decided enough of watching brief

And legged it for the constituency HQ with his flock

He could no longer trust his own belief

 

The sights and images of his whistle-stop tour

Rankled him and caused much discomfiture

It was apparent that misgovernance would no longer inure

His folks to unwavering fealty, the realization sunk, he wasn’t a permanent fixture

On the other hand, they were more receptive to the amateur’s overture

Whose presence was made felt in the imagery

He seemed like a formidable rival, who had grown in stature

And was making it a contest through sheer drudgery

 

The MLA had seen enough

He decided to get down to brass tacks

The route that lay ahead was tough

And he could no longer afford to be lax

He conjured up a grand campaign putting to use all the kickbacks,

Laundered black money and extorted excesses      

Plus a manifesto laden with roorbacks

Misquoted numbers and made up successes

 

The newcomer however was not to be daunted

He had nothing to lose

He campaigned the right way, neither much vaunted

Nor low-key, instead focusing on putting across his views -

Expose corruption and the party’s abject failures to address issues

And drive home the game-plan on how he would address the same

For he knew the only way to cook the MLA’s goose

Was to put his own skin into the game.

 

As a first step, he laid out a clear framework

For a transparent, corruption-free and well-oiled administration

And announced a slew of precise targeted measures

The first of which was immediate liquor prohibition

“Do you want another tenure of disastrous years”,

He effectively exhorted – “And then subject yourself to another regrettable post-mortem

Or give me a chance, a chance to someone who is ‘supposedly’ wet behind the ears

But can completely overhaul the system”?

 

Over the course of the next fortnight

The rival camps hit feverish heights

The MLA flexed his muscle with all his might

His sycophant underlings engaged the amateur to petty fights,

Concocted calumnious stories, and painted him as a philanderer

Bush telegraphed doctored sleazy sound bites

And roped in partisan media houses to trigger a campaign of slander

In attempts to ensnare him under unmerciful spotlights

 

Not one to be easily browbeaten

The newcomer upped the magnitude

Of his campaign and tried to sweeten

All the ad-hominem that was spewed

He viewed it as a manifestation of his opposition’s disquietude

And never once reacted resorted to any under-the-belt tactic

A testament to his remarkable rectitude

Win or not, he wasn’t going to let it end anti-climactic

 

The MLA had several tricks up his sleeve

He whipped up the caste rhetoric in generous measure

Of his unfulfilled promises, he begged for a reprieve

Instead pointed out to paltry successes and the pressure

At his level which gave him no pleasure

But said he would always be the right man for the job

Self-aggrandizing himself as his people’s real treasure

Whereas the newcomer would merely be a temporary heartthrob

 

However, to the people, this time

‘Twice bitten thrice shy’ seemed to be theme

His manifesto didn’t generate much interest

Concessions for women, Mid-day meal scheme

For school children, Subsidies for farmers, all rang hollow

And so did a plethora of other legacy wares hawked at the hustings

He was clearly dispossessed of his halo

And the final nail had been hammered on his people’s trusting.

 

The last few days ended in a flourish

The two parties sparred for front page reportage

Either one hoping to get the other to perish

Scoring last minute brownie points and political mileage

But the opinion polls were skewed to the newcomer’s advantage

Despite his meagre wherewithal and bankrolling

As it boiled down to the final showpiece of the grand stage -

The sacred count on the day of polling

 

Hours before the dawn of voting day

In the wee hours when darkness lurks

The sleeping dogs that lay

Got to the night’s work

A well-organized network

Loaded with the necessary ammunition

Having done the arduous spade work

For the agenda, embarked on its execution

 

Between half past three and half past four

The citizenry were woken abrupt

By an anonymous packet flung at their door

Causing a thud calculated to interrupt

And arouse its sleeping inmates and disrupt

The mindset they had long begotten

The package also bore a paper slip designed to corrupt

The best among the unblemished and the unrotten.

 

The message read – “This is just the beginning,

If you know whom to vote for. It’s bad

That we are late, but as a promise there is more in the offing”

The unraveled package revealed a neat little wad

Of crisp notes, a saree and to complete the triad

And the closing act of the homestretch

A little bottle of the finest no one had ever had

Tailored to suit the male half of the sketch.

 

It is at this tantalizing juncture

That the reader rightfully questions

What he can expect to conjecture

Should he be optimistic? Should he be tense?

Or should he simply take off his punctilious lens

And stop subjecting the narrator to this scrutiny

And for peace’s sake abandon any silent preference

While leave the man of verse to carve out the newcomer’s destiny

 

To the most inspiring of scripts

Seldom has there been a fairy tale ending

And so shall in this case be no rescripts

For there is no scope for truth-bending

The climax that is most heart-rending

Is the one where the rawness of life is relayed

Unalloyed, verisimilitudinous without any blending

A strong heart reacquaints itself with reality, without much aid

 

An insufferable society wallows in a putrid runnel

Of depraved ideals and moral turpitude

Saintly wisdom passed down ages is blasted into shrapnel

When streaks of deracination have deeply imbued

Till time sows the seeds of rectitude

Waves of misfortune will raze mercilessly

Over past glory decayed into desuetude

Meliorism dies its death slowly and painfully

On that note, I would rather

Not break the sad news with a feather touch

But let the reader put two and two together

And not flog the dead horse too much

The good ending for which I am in search

Will evade yet again, for truth is brutally bitter

And always knocks velleities off the perch

With that I cease my lamentable witter.

Humanity’s Trial By Fire

As humanity grapples with perhaps the greatest ever crisis it has been confronted with, I ponder the multitudinous ways in which it could alter our lives forever. The theme latent all along in this short verse with regards to the pandemic, is uncertainty and gratitude. In such times, living each day on its merit and acting responsibly seems to be the way one should go about, while at the same time take a moment pay homage to the unfortunate beings who have succumbed to this wretched virus and thankful to the countless heroes who are working round the clock to defeat it.

The invisible marauder has sneaked everywhere,

Man to man rapidly proliferating.

Before you even wonder if it’s there,

It’s ubiquitously tripling and quadrupling.

 

Just as life looked to limp back to normalcy,

It’s recrudescent powers continued to stun,

Mutating into virulent strains,

The fight has just but begun.

 

The crisis has flummoxed all and sundry,

Governments and plebeians alike.

The pulverizing virus has rent it’s war cry,

As morbidity rates continue to spike.

 

The incessant groan of healthcare systems,

The weight of snowballing caseloads,

And manic testing activity, typifies the mayhem,

As a luck-less search for the elixir vaccine ensues.

 

The world has shrunk into it’s canopy,

Shapeshifting into a virtual de-globalized state.

Doctors, police, social workers and a few other heroes

Are still out in the open, working tireless to render a changed fate.

 

The ultimate test of melioristic potential,

Humanity’s trial by fire - is well and truly here.

The battle of an existential crisis looms large,

While the ill-begotten virus will hope the fire is the pyre.

 

But humanity shall prevail over the virus

Eventually, a pyrrhic victory no doubt,

We will countervail with our strength

And in God’s good time we shall ensure its rout.

 

But till then let’s hold tight,

And bear the pain of strife.

Masks, sanitizers and social distancing norms,

Shall symbolize our quotidian life.

 

The black swan is trumpeting her dance of doom.

So before plans to re-open life go ballistic,

Think twice, snug yourselves at home,

Lest you want to end up as a cursed statistic.                       

The God Business

While seminal would be too extreme to describe the tiny work of a fledgling writer, I will consider this one as the best poem I have written till date. There is absolutely no hesitation that this work has been solely inspired by one of the greatest novels written entirely as Onegin Sonnets – ‘The Golden Gate’ by my favorite poet Vikram Seth. I put painstaking effort over a month in writing a heavily abridged Onegin poem, and I realized how tough it would have been for the Mr. Seth to write his magnum opus. Consisting of 19 sonnets and 266 lines, written in the Iambic Tetrameter with the rhyme scheme – ABABCCDDEFFEGG, ‘The God Business’ is laced with attempts to explore various facets of Religion, God and Spirituality which has been a contentious topic close to my heart for years. For perhaps the only time till date did I feel a profound sense of pride and achievement of my own literary output when I finished this poem.

Scarcely knowing where to begin

This writer’s desperate attempts to avoid

The minutiae springing forth from the inception of this onegin

May somewhat be rendered null and void

But he will nevertheless try to push

Through to the contents, without beating around the bush

And quickly get down to brass tacks

By starting to lay down plain facts

And promote ideas seemingly tendentious

Bordering on the lines of blasphemy.

He endangers self to land in infamy,

However knowingly employs words ‘licentious’

Wading into troubled waters, abandoning rectitude

To issue output with devil-may-care attitude.

 

One un-fine day, with heart beset by the weight of its sorrows

Plentiful, heavy, bedeviled and unable to cope

Any more with the outrageous hurling of slings and arrows

And convulsed in the throes awaiting new-born hope,

I decided to confront the creator once and for all

And release a fresh tranche of clarion call

Or in softer terms to seek succour

And exhort divine intervention into my cri de Coeur.

I also sought the comfort

Of my wife who was convinced

And whose voice and tone evinced,

That the solution required an effort

To not stop with just verbiage

But to embark on a holy pilgrimage

 

Not entirely convinced of its purported efficacy

Nonetheless yielding to glib persuasion,

And in order to conceal any signs of apostasy

I earmarked a weekend for the exertion.

On the evening of Friday, the thirteenth of April

Plucking up reserves of patience and will,

I departed for the temple town

By train, shortly after sundown,

In a compartment pullulated

By rambunctious devotees

Who ensured not a moment’s peace

As nook and corner was populated,

By swarms of human fervor in locomotion

Putting me through the sufferance of unabated commotion

 

After a night of disturbed sleep

A night that never seemed to end

Fruitlessly spent counting sheep

We eventually arrived at journey’s end.

As the sun arose from it’s slumber

To herald another day of a blistering Indian Summer.

I packed bag and disembarked

And made way to the autos parked.

The milling passengers were welcomed by masters of hustle

The obstreperous Autowallahs and their gheraoing tactics, sans finesse.

As the human hyenas scented quick business

One chap ensnared me after a lengthy tussle

And fished me out of the unruly gaggle

And I was soon ensconced in the backseat ready for the dreaded haggle.

 

Commenced the unpleasant exchange.

“So how much to hotel Four Seasons?”

“300 sir”. “300! Shocking! Is that the usual range?”

“Yes sir, it is, and not without reasons -

This is festival time, and we shuttle

You back and forth, without rest” adding a subtle

Bite, before resuming – “We need to pay bribes

And kickbacks to the police tribes”

“But, G-map says it’s just three miles, look I don’t intend to bargain....”

“Sir! I am sorry to interrupt! - You spend thousands on travel

Poojas and Aarthis. And on the move, newer expenses unravel

Themselves costing you a fortune that you never complain

Considering all that, this amount is pretty smallish

Please don’t be penny wise pound foolish.”

 

With energy levels plummeting,

Signalling, I was low on carbs

And sensing no point further fretting

I stopped trading barbs.

As the auto began winding its way

I sat back and tried to survey

The environs of the famed town,

Cocking a worm’s eye view of the temple tower, jewel in its crown.

Entry into the famed town was welcomed by an arched vault

We snaked through roads that wore a festive look

Grandly bedecked, offering a promising outlook

And reached destination, as the chap ground to a halt

“Enjoy sir, hope you like our town and its culture!”

On this note, pocketing the money, departed the human vulture.

 

The next couple of hours were consumed

Prepping for the long day ahead.

After a refreshing bath, traditionally attired and perfumed,

Brunched in the attached restaurant, feeling well-fed

I tooled off towards the temple

The routine was set, plain and simple.

I brushed aside the hollering autowallahs not to be budged

The full distance of three miles I trudged

Along drinking in the city’s traditions and mores

Lively deity processions middling the road, sided by coloured shops

Snack stalls and caparisoned pandals supported by props

And devotees thronging the streets in scores

Squeezing through humans and bovine

Creatures, psycho-geographing all the way to the shrine.

 

After an hour and two quarters

Having traipsed under the blazing rays

I finally sighted the temple at close quarters.

Summoning up reserves, and quickening my pace

I landed up in front of the temple, drenched top to toe

And took out a kerchief to mop the brow.

I made way to the ticket counter

To witness a massive queue flounder

At the very end of the human column

Where the queue diverged into three.

‘Regular Rs. 50, Special Rs. 100 and Rs. 250 for VIP Entry’

Blared the ‘Darshan’ rates on a flex board, solemn

Reminder of truth that even God in his elevated stature

Was rendered a mere commercial caricature.

 

As the queue meandered with the pace of a snail              

I spent the interim contemplating

On the best option to avail

And made no concrete decision until the end of waiting.

Caught between cost and convenience

I tried to draw from previous experience.

True, Rs. 250 was mightily exorbitant

But the Darshan would complete in an instant.

On the other hand the first choice

Was also attractive, a pittance

Of an amount, but entailed bearing the waiting distance.

So I nailed ‘Option Two, deciding to strike equipoise

Taking the middle ground, when such dilemmas ensue

Also seems the alternative, most sound to pursue.

 

So seizing the middle ticket

I set foot inside the temple compound

I thought I was on a steady wicket

New fixtures ahead penciled abound

I was dazed at the architecture magnifique

Wide-eyed, gaping jaws, welted with mystique

At the Stunning edifices and statues, sculpted with passionate geometry

And neatly laid pavilions, flanked by structures in flawless symmetry

I couldn’t help but marvel

At the greatness of my ancestry

An age where true greatness prevailed minus the sophistry

The architectonic wonder alone was worth the travel

As I peregrinated the super acres of the courtyard

And sat marveling on the greensward.

 

Impelled to the spot by the piece de resistance

I sat unflappably ignoring passage of time

What eventually returned me to my cognizance

Was the temple tower bell’s plangent chime.

I approached a man, dark, sweaty and swarthy

“Excuse me sir, How do I go to the evening Aarthi?”

“Have you bought the Aarthi token”

Token? Flashing the ticket, I rebuked, “I thought..”.. I had barely spoken

“For the Aarthi, you need to obtain

He chipped in – “Another token to validate

Your entrance into the main gate

So hurry along fast only 10 minutes remain”

So I hurried along quickening my pace

To acquire my next proof of purchase

 

Shelling out another atrocious Two hundred bucks

Again paraded in the name of the Godhead

I immersed myself again into the teeming influx

Of devotees, which began to come to a head

After a good ninety minutes, I reached the Sanctum Sanctorum

Whose air totally devoided any decorum

A crowd had gathered at the center of a kerfuffle

I rubbernecked to ascertain what caused the scuffle

The arrival of a priest had caused the clash

Between two queueing devotees, standing cheek by jowl

One stubbed his toe against the other, resulting in a howl

In the process of securing the sacred ash

After quick unruly exchanges, interest gradually waned

Amongst the heads that had inquisitively craned.

 

In a country which is unwilling to spare

Even smallest tiffs which snowball into riots

Such temperate resolutions are refreshingly rare

I silently thanked my two compatriots

Even if I knew it was more out of sacrilege

And fear of the divine, that usage

Of words and actions more profane

Were retracted in fear of inviting the bane

I propped up against the rails of the altar

Once the adornment of God was complete

With milk, ghee, honey and bananas replete

I would at last see God himself without any falter

And hopefully feel at ease

And my problems would cease

 

The next few tense revolutions

Of the largest hands in the clock

Saw God’s children waiting for their absolution.

Rammed to each other chock-a-block

The prized wait ended moments later

As God’s sacerdotal mediator

Threw open the screen to full vision

And triggered a human explosion.

The crowd plunged into pell-mell

To catch fleeting glimpses of the deity

Oxymoronically everything in the process amounted to impiety.

Morbid human masses began to jostle, thwack, and yell

Cannoning onto each other, bellowing many a foul-mouthed sound-byte

In a primordial attempt to throw themselves into God’s line of sight.

 

The penultimate portion of the process was over

The screen closed again signaling an intermediary buffer

With messianic zeal, the mob continued to spill over

The last step would prove to be even tougher

To my own surprise, I proved to be no pushover

Despite completing the divine sighting, I continued to hover

Instead of beating a hasty retreat

Through the side exit, I decided to linger in the heat.

In 5 minutes, a rotund priest lumbered in, all authority

As a posse of security guards herded the rabid swarm

Of men, to have one quick tryst, to fob off their charm

To God himself in close proximity

So, I trundled along with the rank and file

As we were shepherded through the turnstile.

 

If I had thought I had already seen the worst

Make no mistake, I was proven wrong

As the simmering pilgrim bubble yet again burst

And I was squashed yet again in the throng.

Able-bodied men tried to bore through

Unsuccessfully, instead sticking to each other like glue.

As we neared the idol, almost every member of the wrestling

Gang further hastened by the guard’s incessant whistling

Caved in before God in an act of spontaneity.

As the guards mercilessly pulled and smacked

The recalcitrant few who refused to exit, were dragged and whacked

Out, as attempts to secure extra seconds of divine eye contact, the ultimate quest

Made all the difference in this miserable spiritual contest.

 

The Sanctum Sanctorum reverberated with holy cries

In praise of the lord with effusive unction,

While the security guards under his watchful eyes

Defenestrated us without compunction.

I staggered out, my juices sucked out, low and shriveled,

Rattled, shaken and disheveled

But relieved to be out of the mess and freed

And not have succumbed to a stampede.

Without any further delay

I saluted the monument and exited.

I didn’t mind if my visit was unrequited

But I was slowly convinced I didn’t need a show of parley

With God to prove my devotion and fealty

My first step towards understanding the reality.

 

Cut to 36 hours later

I was back home, seated in my Pooja room

In front of the Supreme Being, my creator

The working week, about to resume.

There were no signs of taedium vitae

To the gravest problems I knew, there was hope, a way

A new power surged through my veins, the power of life

The power to take over the reins and overcome any strife.

I still had to take care of one pending matter

The matter of God, our business was unfinished

Now was the moment to seize, before it diminished

The rest could wait, I could choose not to cater.

I wished to ratiocinate, totally impervious

To temptations of visceral bias.

The business of God abounds with confusion

After orchestrating one deeply profound introspection

I had formed my conclusion

After subjecting God to this imperative vivisection

I needed no chants, no book, or ritualistic channels,

No pilgrimages, no sacred ashes or panels

Of priestly intercessions in commercialized edifices.

I needed only God (free of cost) his ubiquitous presence alone suffices.

The ultimate truth which had belied

For years revealed itself - The place

I had to look for solace

When needed was deep down inside

For that is the holiest abode where God resides

The truest temple is in the heart from where he presides.