THERE HAD BEEN NO SURVIVORS

Only the professional butcher knew
how to plunge the knife
into the unsuspecting animal
on that feast day.
Since our refined ears
couldn't stomach
that bloodcurdling sound,
we told the man
to perform the deed
only when two suburban trains crossed.

Yesterday, our children
had garlanded the goat
and smeared its forehead
with coloured powder.
Today, they had to be told that
the beast
had become
meat
through the sheer magic
of our religion.

They were too young
to understand
the notion of "sacrifice",
so we had to 
pantomime the deed.
Everyone
joined in the fun
except the children,
who shivered away
from such reckless enthusiasm
when their tiny bare feet,
suddenly felt the stickiness,
over a hurriedly washed
patch of courtyard.

The day was somehow ruined
and we looked forward
to the time
when they fell,
sullenly
to sleep.

Next morning
when we turned them over,
goathorns promised
to sprout
from their foreheads.
The coloured powder
from their palms
had clotted
all along their fate-line.
And in their dreams,
a train carrying all of us
had run over a goat
and derailed.

There had been no survivors.
 
 

A CRUDE DEFINITION OF FAMILY

Mother picks out lice
from his hair.
Father searches for a future
on his face.
Son presses two tiny sticks
against his eyeballs.
All three collapse
into one laughter
before separating
for the day.

It doesn't matter if the snows melt in the Himalayas or not

as long as
two tiny sticks
drawing a square in the mud
can fit in it
a family of three
like a mountain range.

It really doesn't matter if there is a future or not.

Even lice are welcome in this square
to share happiness.