A gong echoes
through the nerves
of a naked temple
the priest,
pulls the janeu
close to his holy milieu
a news
reaches the door steps
of a village, resting ,
on the laps of a burdened night
like a noose
binding the bones
of a burning corpse
hatred in the hands
anger in the eyes
a hundred men move
like ill-trained soldiers
of a never-ending war
like a flock of fleas
feeding on rotten flesh
moon,
that cracked mirror of melancholy,
reflects a cow
horns like trishuls
hoofs like holy domes
chewing
at the mirror,
from within
bit by bit,
the image bursts through
shattered moon
spread across the ocean
like dead bodies of birds
that couldn’t bear to fly
anymore
scared stars
seek refuge
in the shadow of a sun
frozen on the canvas of cosmos
humble clouds
softly melt into dew
on the lips of faded roses.
Azeez,
prays near the silence of his windows
as he blows his breath
over the surface of his chest,
he gazes at the distant sky
the blue expanse of its sad beauty
for the first time in all his 50 years,
he looks at a sky shorn of all its ornaments,
no starstudded necklaces
or moonful sindhoor
or seven-colored lipgloss
or clumps of cloudy hair
for the first time,
sky feels like a delicate wall
between the almighty and him.
he longs, in that second,
to rebuild this fragile barrier
with the bricks he bought for work
A brickboned sky
cemented with piety of a mason
An offering to the god…
a sudden thud on the door
bitter like a graveyard’s breath
voices shored up outside
buzzing like waves
looking for silent sand
to dissolve their disgust
to spit the remains of their rage
everyone in the home
huddled up tight in their hearts
clutching to the pale walls
hinge of the door
slides down like a knife
waiting to stab the sky
the velvety curtain
still soaking in the scent of Eid
shakes like a baby on fire
the door breaks open
the treasure trove of human flesh
pounced upon with swords of slogans
“You think we don’t know
what was in the cover
you dumped in the landfill
those stinking bones,
that stale pounds of meat
You think you can escape
killing our mother, our gau,…
the wrath of her wronged sons
shall make you vomit all that you gulped,
you shameless Miyans’ “
” You are mistaken. no..”
A young man hits Azeez on his jaws
with a red brick from the corner
the mob rushes towards him,
each picking up a sturdy brick
dragging him
like a corpse in chains
to the solemn street outside
beads of blood
drip beneath his eyelids
sinking into his sodden kurta
like shadows in the night
they surround his body
their legs moved
like those of rats
marching to the tunes
of a loud, yet distant, pipe
the band of bigots
in the land of bullies
the sky seems to spit
dust from the bloodied bricks
weeping walls of ravaged rooms
look for fingers to wipe their tears
but find only fists
that pound on the bent backbones
of loosely locked doors
birds
fluttered from horizon to horizon
depositing dispatches
of despair
on the crumbling roofs
of hope, hiding,
in exile
cloaked in the whispers of winter
sleeping in the arms of a fading spring
” Is it time to die?”
the hope looks with closed eyes
at silent faces of helpless seasons.
the mob knows,
all it takes is one more punch.
they shuffle for that last brick
unbroken
unstained
bricks of a burning house
a house
abandoned
its bosom bleeding
like that of a mother
with no more milk to give
for its dying children
a house
hounded to its death
buried alive in the midst of a cheering crowd
that last brick
to silence the last beat
of a grieving heart
to lynch the last lunch
of a hungry home
his daughter rushes towards it
throwing herself over the remaining brick
the only one.
they knew that that brick
cannot be culled from her claws
they drag her towards him
her moist eyes
to the shore of her father
receding deep into the sea
far from the wings of the vultures
they pull her shoulders back
with the force of a funeral dance
and then down onto his shaking throat,
the last brick lands…
and breaks
into million words
of a charred poem
his last breath melts
into the morning, still hiding,
under the robes of the naked night.
his lifeless eyes
seem to be telling her
” find a roof to save
this homeless sky”
the last tears of open eyes
the last brick of a shifting house
( for Akhlaq)
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