Consecration

My spine is bent, Sir
You can see the bones jutting out;

My hands
I have stretched,
To touch your feet
My index finger on your right toe:
Can’t you see, Yes?
Thank you! (glee)

I beg your pardon?
Yes, I made sure I burnt all the books before we met
And my pen is now the river

My brain as you know is at the hawkers
My skull is empty now
Even the scars do not remain.(smile)

I wait now for consecration,
Your holy water dripping on my head

And I will see the years dropping down one by one
A bullet for each memory

You ask me names now?
Soni Sori?
Dongria Kondh?

Or

Rosa Luxemburg?
Hannah Arendt?
Bob Marley?

Nor

Hilter
Mussolini?

No, I do not remember.
Nothing Sir, not even vaguely.

(Yesterday the newspaper said three children were suspended from a school for pasting a paper on the wall that cried for two little children killed after rape. And I again smiled. That is how it should be)

No, I do not remember the place
Nothing.(Spreading hands)

It is all light;
I am almost an angel now.
You can see my eyes.
Look! I have opened them wide for you, Sir
Baby white and black raisins.

Look!
And you will see a sky
Where a bird does not move
Nor the children hum
It is all peace
Like you
And me.

Arathy Asok is a Kerala based poet

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