Gunpowder in the Horizon
1
Both the poet and the typists are linguistic labourers. One translates the sticky flour into rounded words. They look like some misspelt words, blemishes on the chest of burnt moon.
Down below await with gaping wonder the audience, the starving majority. The other styles and plates those scribbles with much affection so they look like a divine dish. One or two printing mistakes stick out like gravels in rice. The poet comes out of the arched gateway, his Cadillac in wait. Poetry baked fresh from the oven will set the evening soirees ablaze amidst much claps and whistles. Moons of puja edition will rise above the underpaid press workers’ heads when after nightshift they will rest in the Nandan premises.
The poet will give autographs, a little drop of tear will fall on the manuscripts, scattered. The poet and the compositor—the artist and the worker will share the same glass in the rugged beams of the full moon.
2
Once denied at the gateway he is standing
Now on an open street before you.
Alighting from the running bus, he has
risked his life to step on the footpath.
You saw him, but as you pretended to avoid him,
his existence appeared before you like a rattlesnake.
His 6 feet 3 inches height tore away the cloudy layers.
Traffic stilled. To hide discomfort, you mopped
your face with a hanky.
But you could not hide the sweat of your forehead.
His wide recalcitrant stride is enough challenge to you.
Lightning flashed from his eye balls.
The waist belt hinted at his prolonged rigorous practice.
For long he is on the lookout for you.
Hiding behind alleys or cheap tea shacks,
he has observed you riding the cars, pure
and lecherous moments amidst your companions.
He has smelt your scared pulse
seen the wobbly knee in your each successful step.
A long trail of your years has gone by in front of a telescopic rifle.
He has taken stock of all your frightened heartbeats.
Face the wall now. Raise your hands.
Your collar will be grabbed by his reckless palms.
Only one bullet is enough from a point-blank range.
He hasn’t tasted blood for long.
But no, he won’t kill you.
He will plant himself on the wall
and the bullet will whiz
past your right ear
so you can never feel safe
even for a second.
4
Suppose I’m a broken guitar and you are a seasoned maestro of ghazal.
Suppose I’m a blunt wooden plough and you are a skilled farmer!
Suppose I’m a cheap football and you are a billionaire striker.
Suppose I’m a dog of common breed and you are a young blonde, an aristocrat.
What! Don’t you believe? Take it in your hands and test.
Play, kick or pull the chain and examine.
If you still have doubt, trust the trigger just for once,
and see me break into the citadel like a fiery bullet.
