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From A Truant Man
Gone are the days of joy
When your touch sparked a fire
inside me
I remember how it was
When your fingertips moved
on small bumps
on my skin.
Coveted by many, hated by a few.
Times changed;
Little by little, I now fade away
Hidden below your new memories
I see old ties resurfaced
Old friendships renewed.
You revel in them
Your laughter I do not understand;
it’s new.
Your coy smile is different,
is it not for me?
Were these new memories made
in my absence?
My breeding fails to compete,
I am exhausted. I am old.
I am worthless in such mighty presence.
My gains thus far
inadequate and insufficient.
You call me half.
Half-husband, half-man, half-human.
Is that an insult? I think not.
Lock horns? Alas!
I am not a mighty bull
Nor am I a ferocious tiger
to make prey of my foe.
Oh, to think I kicked many a pebble
in my pursuit of a gem.
Now I understand,
Why gravel needs less tending to
than a precious stone on one’s finger.
My days are numbered:
Numbers out of a baby’s mouth.
I’ll soon be a feather
dropped, by a violent shaking
of your body
Slowly falling down
From skies up high
On to a pavement
Where it’ll breathe
it’s last breath.
Then, stand next to me,
in your high heels.
Eyes glued and lips sewn shut.
My fingers interlocked.
A wreath below my feet
Another above my head.
It does not fit, don’t you think?
When does the devil get flowers?
The collar hides the bruises.
I am sorry. It must be embarrassing.
But keep me company, please.
I see you looking down.
I see a tear:
Is that a tear of guilt?
Or one of relief?
A Department of ELT
The dusty name board
Nailed to the wall
Above the big door. It looks different,
different old, different dirty.
Other doors have new ones.
But that’s okay.
We’re always the last ones; be it for fund, for function, or for fun.
We aren’t yet “credited”, that’s why.
“Oi!, Where’s my chair?”
Oh! It’s in the new building now.
Where to sit, you ask?
Calm down. You’ll get a new-old one.
But why so demanding?
Read the circulars!
You’re on the bottom rung.
Why so entitled?
You are just generals.
Nothing Special, huh?
“Oi, open the door
Our mighty elders are here”.
Why, you ask?
We are interview fodder, you see.
Didn’t you see the photographer?
Many need the four letter abbreviation.
One gave a seminar.
Then disappeared.
Another gave us a makeover.
But took the makeup kit with her.
One took over the herd.
It was all back-scratching, you see?
Soon, they won the letters.
Now we don't feel their absent-presence.
But they have photographs,
well preserved, well hidden.
This is just a stepping stone, you see?
No settlers, like pirates.
Whom are you pointing at?
Ah, the few rooted ones?
They’ve married well.
In the shadow of their better (and bigger halves), but comfortable.
We don’t make one mistake here, you see?
The mistake of hope.
We’re here today, but not tomorrow.
Our essence is blurred and barred.
Okay. Now I have to run upstairs.
It’s 5.30.
Let me scan my prints, lest they brand me a criminal.
Can you pack my bags?
Put those two paper packets in my bag please?
I must grade them at night.
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