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…
