portrait

There’s something about him –
the way he conducted himself.
No. Conducted is the wrong word.

His demeanour is a stage
without a curtain. really.
There is no membrane. Nothing
that complicates his
serious play with the system.
(haha. system it seems)

I’ve watched him. his earnestness.
as sudden as the scent of mallige
that peeps out from the rag picker’s
tightly wound shock of hair.
(He likes her. And she knows it)
as spontaneous. as the smile that
pricks her chapped lips. when she sees him
standing there in the middle of the
road lost. Searching.

There’s something about the way
His eye glistens. It’s like a little light.
a crack through which a persistent
ray grows. Yes that’s it. A beam.
a sliver. a frisson. Of excitement.
And his face turns Incarnadine
with the rush of a red passion.
When he decides to act.

And the way it stays that way
Until after they’ve stamped his
Quivering carcass of resistance.
After they’ve sucked the blood
Out of his words. And suffocated
His defiance with a polythene
arm bloated up with the anarchy
Of power.

Still he fights. His belief
Is the city that wakes up
Every morning. No matter how dark
How lonesome. How vulnerable.
How tortured. The night was.

His prayer. Is the conscience
of a people stained with the
residue of loss.

Have you seen him?
sitting at some chai shop.
beedi between his lips.
pen in hand. Writing the future?
Or at some college canteen
His voice shrill with desire.
It is lust. Nothing else.
That’s what drives him.
A lust for the unobtainable.
A stubborn
Intimacy with truth.

Or in a train compartment
His hands gesturing wildly.
Oblivious of the stifled laughter
Of dogs in suits. That heel
When they’re. And sit
Quietly sniffing the bums
Of their masters. Or yelping
At those who threaten their
Carefully constructed sangfroid.

The most beautiful thing about him
is his vulnerability. That’s what he never hides.
That’s what he uses.
where he draws his strength.
There are those who hide it
in fear. But not him.
He wears it like a message
To those he loathes.

And that is what separates
Him from them.
That is the difference
Between power
And resistance.

I wish we’d got to him
before the government did.

Advertisements

About teevramadhyam

'I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity' -Poe
This entry was posted in #poemaday, ananth, angryfix, Atyachar, community, Could be verse, It is written, One Bad Day, the apocalyptic real, Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s