Timepiece

Timepiece

I was so ill
so ill, so frightened
that I neglected all, nglected my own self
more than all. Now I lie as a ticking timepeice
under a quilt
beaten by a sense of loss.
What a waste
of energy --- a cloudburst
of intese fantasy!
I never learnt to compromise.
I thought I would learn from Islam
a clean way to compromise ----I did not.


I am hard as a nail
on the cross ---
not the original cross
they hung Jesus on----
there are myriad Iscariots
lurking in the dark
waiting for the cock's
third crowing.
The Cross I use
resembles the one Jesus used
but I am too shabby
for resurrections.

Pritish Nandy called my best book
pulp-fiction.
No, not even a maggot can
grow out of the debris
of my crucifixion,
not an ant alive
shall peer out of my viscera.
Do not put my body
in any coffin of wood,
the embers of my corpse
will burn holes and smoulder.

If I marry an ordinary man
I had hoped I would become
Ordinary,
Insulated against scorn.
Why would want to marry me?
I am such as eccentric!
When I loved,
I became pure love
When I lost,
I became pure loss
Nothing else.
There is no beatification
in suffering
I shall break open
my mind
and display the viscera.
I shall hold an exhibition
at the Chitram Art Gallery.
Chitram does not invite me
any longer to inagurate
their shows.
Cenversion to Islam
bothers them all.
Muslims and Hindus,
both factions are bothered.
I am not Mother Teresa
eligible for canonisation
I am not the smiling Amma
prepared to embrace all.

I am some kind of a worm
now laid under
the microscope.
My fame itself
is in doubt,
It's crisscrossed with blunders.
I am the son
of Eleanora Heine
or was it said by another?
I forget names.
Will one of my sons dare to say
I am the son
of Kamala Das?
My wayward search for love
made me seem ridiculous.
all searches are wayward,
there is grace
only in repose.

Kamala Das.