Battling it
YUYUTSU SHARMA
Ek din chadya tere rang varga...
--Shiv Kumar Batalvi,
Punjabi Poet
Each moment an ambush
with the glistening buffalo rider racing amuck
in the nether world of my sleep
Each day a scuffle
with headless phantoms from
the blind caves of high hills
where a giant yeti awaits,
her hunger stretched wide open
to feed a million more plagues.
Nine months have passed,
nine fierce flicks of his giant eyelids,
the crashing of colossal waves
over thrumming route of my wind pipe.
Nine months have passed,
nine months of so many misshapen regimes,
flying vampires scuttling over the faulty
horoscopes of this planet’s destiny
pouring torrents of molten tar
in the cobalt blue rivers of our joy.
Nine months have passed
and I resolve to walk again
against the mangled currents to reach
the favorite spots in my beloved city,
only to rush back home
shuddering from an erratic rush
of my breath unhinging my sturdy frame
inherited from my wrestler ancestors.
A sensation stirs in a corner
of my right lung and inflames
into an inferno of endless pain.
Have I fallen prey to its tentacles?
How did it happen? I ask.
Did it occur at the Grocery store
or in a city bus? Couldn’t you
have waited a while,
looked for a cab
or simply walked to the spot?
Where was there this hurry?
It was about to rain;
cabs simple disappear during
rainy hours in Kathmandu?
So where you think you picked it up;
as you passed by Hanuman Shrine
near your place with devotees thronging it,
seeking strength and salvation,
singing out loud, jamming the sidewalk?
Hasn’t it finally grabbed you by the throat?
A mild rasping begins and gets stuck in the lungs,
a burning sensation blights down my spine,
the flame of my breath gets shredded,
like fragmented rainbow chunks
pulled from the sleek glistening
bodies of the patron serpents of the valley?
Breathless, I feel it loping down
the depths of my blood vessels.
I try restraint, try to tackle the impending
onslaught of an anxiety by meekly submitting
myself to its preferred sister, Sleep,
to ward off its imminent arrival,
Lord’s cudgel without a signal, or a sound,
only to wake up next morning to savor
a full-blown loaf of a summer day
bouncing like your round face
in my courtyard dancing
with the music of its sunny,
sprightly colors...
Ek din chadya tere
rang varga...
Enormous stretch of fearful times call for a dance.
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