It’s another Sunday...
Another week has come to an end,
Blending into a new one
With a discreet plunge.
The skies, the clouds, the winds—
All whirl about with a festive frenzy,
I walk with inquisitive eyes,
Looking at the hum of the humdrum
That lay before me.
I see Youth spread around,
In lazy languid leisure—
But with hot chai and hotter discussions;
I see Glamour turn into Revolutionaries
And Deities atomised to Reason.
My black eyes follow the black terrier,
Who follows a yellow frocked little being,
Who follows a pale printed piece of news,
As her governess runs behind her,
And her magenta-clad mother
Continues her incessant chatting.
I hear a heavy voice,
A solemn lyrical one--
And I strain my neck to see
A group of grey haired elders
Listening to a bearded gentleman,
As he reads out from a heavy book,
Casting a spell of hypnosis.
And suddenly I feel a sharp jerk.
I spasm out of my hypnosis,
And look at the face above.
The piercing eyes are sharper than arrows,
The pretentious smile uglier than of sorrow.
“Sit here, and try to look innocent.
And don’t forget what you have been trained.
Let’s see if someone takes you today,
Let’s see if you can bring in the pay.”
I look at him and lower my eyes,
And sit on the stony stairs,
I look at him and keep looking,
As he recedes in a distance.
I sit, I stare, and I sigh,
As I think memory comes gushing back.
I lost my mother, I lost my father,
When they sold me for two thousand.
Bloody two thousand.
They were poor, yes, but I was beautiful—
And thus they parted with their only wealth,
For those bloody two thousand.
And since then every Sunday
I come here.
Today I sit and wait for another vulture,
Swooping down to tear me to pieces.
But still I look at Youth,
The yellow frocked little being,
The grey haired gentlemen...
And I smile.
‘Cause I can look at the sky, the clouds, the wind—
And someday, I will be celebrating.
When I write my real story,