Greater Pain

When I was six,
I had typhoid.
Who knew then
Of mental voids,
Just pleasure,
Of being away
From school,
A home stay,
There was no
Future plan,
No letting go.

As I grew,
I held on to pain,
And darkness,
And rain.
I didn’t let hurt
Or seasons go,
Though they themselves
Chose to flow.
Now, as I grow,
Greater pain
Opens doors
For old ones to go.

Thinking Of You

…keep thinking of you…
I don’t regret that you have left.
It’s just the way you did.

It’s not that I am bereft.
It’s not that I didn’t try.

It’s just that I was dying
And you, actually, did die.

Death by O2

The pyres have been lit;
Like warning beacons, I say;
Yellow fire, on broken wood,
Wherein COVID victims lay.

They are wrapped in plastic;
No loved ones, no flowers;
Tired strangers have lit the fires,
They’ll burn but for a few hours.

“Sadgati!” Bhakts say, “not peace!”
They ignore the dead who died,
They replace love with hate,
They worship those who lied.

The pyres have been lit.
No oxygen brought their death.
Bodies light up like lanterns,
They were denied their last breath!

The gods must yet be appeased;
So rallies and melas abound;
We wait for the third phase now;
And the count of pyres in the coming round.