The Vote

Today,  I tiptoed

through the land of

those awaiting death,

and found on my path,

a bag full of pink papers

and a compass.

 

Papers with symbols.

Papers which decided the future

of democracy,

lay abandoned,

on the path which led to the land

of those awaiting death.

 

I hung the bag on my shoulder,

heavy with responsibility,

(What if I met its owner on my path?)

and walked

in pursuit

of those who awaited death.

 

North

I met

shrunken Sybils,

immobile, staring sightless

into the distance,

and old  men who listened futilely

to songs of silence.

There were others

who lay twisted in bed,

waiting to be disentangled in death,

and not to forget,

the ones who sleepwalked

in circles of forgetfulness

in  broad  daylight.

 

I explained to them

my purpose,

and received in return,

tight-lipped glares and scornful laughter,

as if, the country didn’t matter to them,

as if, they had forgotten who they were, and where they were.

 

Forgetfulness is dangerous I thought,

and noted it down in my memory…

 

 

East

I reached a land

pregnant with water;

so I removed my shoes

and waded towards a house

fenced by the river.

 

The old man there was seated on the veranda,

as if he had expected my arrival.

I explained my purpose,

and for a while he remained silent,

then spilled the litany of

unfulfilled promises.

 

Promises to lift them

from this soaking land,

assured every five years, he said,

to him and the people around.

He fell silent again,

and then asked me who I was?

 

Baffled, I reiterated to myself,

forgetfulness is dangerous,

a sign that you are awaiting death,

and noted it down in my memory.

 

 

South

Here the old had

defined leanings,

to the right,

or the left,

or the middle path.

 

Excited and loyal,

they snatched

the pink paper from my hand,

and after a second or two

confessed,

that they had forgotten the symbols!

 

Forgetfulness is dangerous I thought,

it is the sign of death approaching,

and noted it down in my memory…

 

 

West

I knocked on doors

which no one answered.

Maybe the old there were dispatched

to their next son’s home,

or a hospital

to wait their turn.

 

There were those withal,  

who were safely locked in,

by children or grandchildren,

lest they be snatched by death,

the ones who stared at me through grilled windows,

smiling as if I was death himself!

 

At last I met an old grandmother

in her nineties,

who  asked me  if I knew her?

I said “yes,”

smiling, embarrassed,

half- flushed,

 by my own lie.

 

Hearing my reply,

she said she was willing to do her part

for  democracy.

As I left she asked me,

once again, if I knew her,

and I simply smiled.

 

Forgetfulness is dangerous I thought,

a sure trail that one has to tread to meet death,

and noted it down in my memory…

 

 

Leaning to one side,

maintaining  the balance,

I walked ahead,

carrying the bag on my shoulder,

with a hope of reaching the point I started,

or at least seeing the person in charge of the leaden luggage.

 

The compass suddenly stopped,

and I realized, I had forgotten

the track to where I began.

I dropped the bag bewildered…