1947

1947 – RAJU DAS

The menu of prospects was cooked

On the plate, the hors d Oeuvre

However, the nibbling worms inside notorious godowns,

Could not wait.

At the stroke of midnight, they ran riot in the nerves and veins

Spilling acidic bile and burnt the courses.

With more hungry waves, the identities and speeches were charred.

These were later peddled democratically, through a Government scheme.

Those who refused to indulge in this feast are in this camp, tight and cold.

While winter drilled on its heel, keeping us all alert.

We turned right, left, forward and about

And saluted the same Goddamn thing.

Some said it was a metaphor of Idi Amin’s appetite.

Others called it a parade,

A competition for points and plaques.

As our lifetime eluded us in staggering lunch time queues

-           Other times in anticipation,

We were reminded there is nothing, nothing whatsoever for coming in last in hierarchy

There is only fish bones stuck into troubled existence.