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By Sourav B


To the puppeteer,

The ventriloquist,

On a serpent, cross or Valhalla.

This movie that you made,

The one I’m playing a part in,

Is asking me questions

That I’m struggling to place.

What ran through your head while you made it?

I wonder.

The bluster in harmony,

The textbook with a heartbeat,

What mortals call Mumbai.

Between the ragpicker in the east

And the well-dressed retriever in the west,

I stand befuddled on what makes more sense,

The amusement I had from the dog skirt she didn’t need,

Or the desire to put a better trouser,

On the boy with the dirty sack.

Neither the boy, nor the dog, seem to care one bit.

Why? I wonder.

From froth and bubbles worth more than four numbers,

To the thirst-Quenching saviour just asking for two,

From t-shirts worth more than some pays at the fourth week,

To the pretty fake jewels,

Bargained over at the street.

From Mannats looking at the ocean,

To tin cans with a tin roof.

From the happy little puppy with a broken little paw,

To the whiny big boy with too much salt in his chips,

Broader and wider lies the spectrum of the kingdom,

And in dismay I see it has broken my compass.

I find myself stuck at the meridian.

To my east is the rag-picking boy,

To my west the dressed-up dog.

Should I feed and be among the ones in east,

Or see how my young life gets treated in the west.

Where do I belong? I wonder.

Where do I go? I wonder.

By Sourav B

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