The Shrine

The shrine was made of gold

Bedecked with jewels

And in the altar

Lay the redolent image,

When they came

For the final pillage.

First there was a whimper,

Then a cry,

Finally a crescendo rose

To do or die.

 

Outside the people

Wondered what were

These endless meetings

Those secret confabulations;

Was it a question

To be or not to be,

When infact he could have

Existed anywhere

Or for that matter, everywhere?

 

They hoped rationality would reign.

But they brayed,

No one can refute,

There is now a dispute;

A golden threshold

Has been crossed,

The very lakshman rekha as it were.

Meanwhile the poor

Sat outside the temple

In a patient line,

Begging for alms,

So they could light

A chullah and eat, just

Feed their starving children;

It was an extraordinary feat

To stay hungry and quiet

For so long.

 

Inside the temple

The fragrance did subside,

The flowers died,

There was so much brouhaha

Over an idol

Called Ram Lalla.

 

Meanwhile they did

Something so fine,

They lowered the line,

The one that defines poverty

And said;

You are self sufficient and rich

Do not try to abridge

Our identityin the world.

You beggars are a scourge,

Get moving,

The world is coming to see us

At the commonwealth hub,

At the high table of the nuclear club.

 

You who walk

with bowls in tatters

Are a shame,

To go nuclear is our tryst with destiny;

Do not this hour recount your poverty,

But join the festivity.

Wrap your leprous stubs,

Hide your scabs,

Keep quiet about just a few scams.

Bend your knees in supplication

We have joined the global destination.

And the poor

Just shivered,

At the seeming

Justice of man,

Over the justice

Of God.

 

May 14, 2012

 

Sagari Chhabra