His lusty shrieks crack the dawn

Vehement, the infant’s protest

At being wrenched out

Into a cold and desolate wasteland.

From the pain-wracked corner

His mother allows a wisp of a smile

To flicker for an instant.

No more will fingers point at her,

Her eyelids droop

In a slumber

She had sought in vain till then.

And the business of Life goes on…

Temple bells peal out

Slicing the clamour of the bazaar.

Devotees throng the steps

Craning to glimpse the deity.

Caste bars their entry.

Only the Neta in white is allowed in.

Obsequious priests fawn at his offerings

Sanctified by the blood and tears of his electorate.

As he turns to wave to the crowd

A sharp stone arcs and plunges

To cut open his big toe and he cringes.

Batons flash and slash the mob.

It runs helter skelter

And the business of Life goes on…

Conches herald the setting sun

Drowning the weak cries of the leper

For a few precious drops of water.

 The world hurries past the dirty bundle

Intent on unknown destinations.

Night falls and a drunk stumbles

Across the bundle now cold and stiff.

It rolls down the river bank.

 Death brings each to the same brink.

 The waters of the sacred river part

In impartial acceptance, as always

Of fresh blossoms and putrid scum.

And the business of Life goes on…