Poem 9 part 1

Innumerable detachments march towards me.
Of dreamers who have caught composite culture by collar
wringing the neck of Unity:
hoarse, confused, angry mobs
playing their fantasy monotones
with Himalayan sincerity
drenched in sanctity of all four Abodes of God
claiming sole ownership of the cream
of Hindustan.

This surge of the Indian ocean
Leaves me baffled, bewildered and dazed.
A bout of communist cough and a swaddle of
Nationalist sweat. I wiped it with a Progressive
Kerchief and straightening my Secular clothes
I started to walk behind them, head hung low.
A couple of the marchers fell behind, perhaps
tired from the hire. Their faces turned questioning
seeing me walk there.
I put on a smile on my Non-violent face and said,
‘I have no tune to sing.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am a nobody in this great democracy.’
‘We will talk later.’ Saying thus they vanished.
I had entered the cultural capital with a rich heritage.

Traversing the lanes and bylanes
We came to a crossroads that dazzled
From the arc lights around the temple of
Basaveshwara.
In the center was enthroned in full splendour
The Lord with his Trunk.
I looked him in the eye and asked:
‘bet, you recognized me? I used to come
to sing hymns to you in school, when Das
teacher sang in his sweet voice.’
I could see he didn’t want to show
his familiarity to me. It’s ok, I said,
after all God is God, isn’t it?
By that time somebody thrust a pedha
in my hand. That put out slowly my desolation.