By Sourav B
To the puppeteer,
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?
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