Poetry in the park
Despite the rains over the last two days, we hoped that there would be no thunder or lightning last evening. And thankfully, there wasn't. A few of us met met at the luscious green KBR to read our poems. The idea was to stay away from coffee houses and chai ki dukaan to soak ourselves in the greenery.
And, we found a sweet spot under a tree. After a couple of rounds of poetry a peacock walked graciously. The velvet colors it adorned were gorgeous. The peacock hopped on to the trees nearby and then onto a tower. We ended the session after three rounds.
The poetry read by these closet poets about their deepest emotions of love, patriotism and hurt, will remain with me.
Here's my verse (an ode to Centenary--Jallianwala Bagh Massacre)
April 13, 2019
The banner of summer sun and call of cuckoos wrapped the little Sikh boy, let's call him Little S, and his sister who were playing chuppam chupai.
Little S hid behind the turbaned man with broad, strong shoulders. Sister came closer and he stealthily ambled towards the nagara man. His hands were nimble yet he played the dhol with vigour every Baisakhi.
But today was a different day.
The nagara man and the other elders sat around the dry well wearing a solemn smile.
The long sturdy wooden doors opened.
The hoardes of men with knives and guns entered.
Little S's eyes widened but he knelt behind the nagara man.
He watched his own kin fall with bloodied chest and arms.
A gory version of chuppam chupai unfolded in front of his button eyes.
He froze.
Suddenly a pair of strong arms picked him and ran towards the dry well..
His last hideout
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