I kissed your forehead, as old
And expansive as this country
Pre-liberation, and when it shed
Colonialists from the years
Ahead, that grey-blue slate,
Sister to the speared whale
And great roof tiles protecting
Worlds from such a
Vertiginous height
No man could patch the cracks
Though try he might.
You wheezed one last aching breath,
Traversing the aged trunk as I
Soothed and stroked your dieing
Thoughts of fruit and love,
Your empty lungs, your unborn
Calf encased the same potential
Hopes for bitter gourds and mangos,
Some cooling mud;
Gestational travels for ten months
In your womb as you both moved
In time and tune
To demigods, Ganesh’s son;
I too closed my eyes
And wished that your death
Would not be in vain,
Though nothing ever is the same
And days seem more indulged
With rain hewn from monsoons
Than absent sun. A mahout
Beat his chest in mournful ways
And pasted lychees on his flesh
Before throwing himself
Beneath a Kerala Express,
Not far from holy-watered beaches
Where teachers in
Their saris dressed,
(Brighter than Orion’s belt
Adorned with cattle bells
And turtle shells) did explain
(With patience of maternity
Nurses weaning goddesses)
Creation’s rationale
And unwinding purpose
For nectar that heals
And surf that complains
To anyone who listens
On life’s vast edge.
The villagers petitioned
Those self-same teachers
To beseech the inspector
To petition the elders to
Write without a moment’s delay
To the municipal commissioner
Representing in his functions
One of the fifty-seven Ministries
With their objections, and yet
Also make sure to send a gift
They said, with a basket of curds
And the holy unction.
The Minister’s representative
On this abundant state
Had less teeth, less influence
Where you collapsed,
Mid-confluence,
With massive internal injuries
From a digested firework,
Than the endangered volvating
Pangolin found in upper forests.
It’s a matter of nuanced debate,
He said as he combed his
Grey moustache, having read
Through these entreaties
To his committee,
As to who began disseminating
This harmful practice which has now
Killed twelve elephants in
The previous five years, was it
The Marxists or the Farmers, or
The Marxist-Farmers housing
Separatists trained on strangely
Shaped islands to hide explosives
In cars on summer-dappled Sundays,
As people walked to temples
For morning prayers and instead were Immersed in carnage,
Or shopping malls,
Or in this case, in pineapples
And strategically placed bananas.
They used to say, the Sages lost
In Time’s long echo trailing,
That you had a stomach
In your mouth
And memories like tree rings
In your tusks. It’s the
Dendrochronologist’s lot
To arrive at far-flung canopies
Developers forgot, only to find
Every tree succumbed to rot,
Stripped bare, and silent.
An autopsy, the officer said,
Is not required when you can see
The remnants of the incendiary
Device beside the calf deluged
By the nineteen hours of chewed
Digested food, sugarcanes,
Tree barks and rice plants which
Grow as tall as a man in Spring.
So as soon as the crowds subsided
The herd emerged from the glades
By the river, and with their trunks
They held umbrellas of love,
Remebering the scent in your
Lotus smiles and deep dreams
In fields of ambarella, where now
You will nuzzle your newborn calf,
And wait for better weather.
