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This week,
somewhere in Pakistan
a bomb exploded
leaving a trail of
melted toys and severed limbs
– ripping apart lives and
splintering souls,
painting the horizon
a violent red.

While I cursed
a too-slow computer
people mutely watched
three men on a beach
deliberately
beat a boy.
They watched as his
thin arms
were raised in plea
and still watched as
the blue-grey waters
claimed him for their own
(they said
he was mentally unsound.
As if that changed
anything at all)

A train has derailed elsewhere.
Bodies trapped
in mangled metal,
the pungent smell of charred flesh
pervading the air
as a sari
blotted with blood
quivers in the breeze.

Over the sound
of a fan whirring,
Louis Armstrong croons
of rainbows and red roses,
and tells me that
we live in a wonderful world.



Lunch Room

 

‘Machan, the sooner this ends, the better’
Pause
Digs teeth
‘Personally, I think it’ll last only a few more months’
Purses lips
‘They wont go down passively though’
Nods impressively
‘After so many years? Of course not’
Shifts bottom

Somewhere
A soldier rubs the sores on his shoulder
And trudges on
Oblivious
That his fate is being decided
By armchair revolutionaries
In white collar shirts
Over rice and curry

>Paradox

>

Scented air,
Plush leather seats,
Sunglasses
Perched
Carefully
On his head.
Music playing
Softly
In the background.
He reigns
Supreme
In the air-conditioned
Comfort
Of his car.

Beads of sweat trickle
Slowly
Down her neck.
Elbows
Digging
Into her back.
Jostled,
Pushed,
Pummeled
By the commuters.
Clutching onto
The handrail,
She gazes
At him
With

Resent.



To ******.

You probably will never read this, but here’s hoping you find your eternal jag someday. If there’s anyone who deserves it, it’s you.