Deceased Intestate Poem by Mandira Mitra

I leave you nothing, Papa,
Except a red brick mound.
You may call it home
And in case I am no more
Do not seek me door to door
Instead let the whirring of the cooler
Cast upon you, dreams galore
Sensex 10,000 and still rising
To peace but not rest.
To Ma, if you can digest
Cruelty. This is called fate.
I choose to die intestate.
To, Shantibai
My fair maid of Cheapside:
Kakdwip, swinging on the Maids’ special local
6: 30 to 8: 30 called Sonarpur express,
Reliever, I have received much
You may keep a lifetime coupon for lunch.
To, my children I bequeath:
A rotund hazy moon,
Gathering sweat without faith
Lies, deceit, NASA’s treads
Antique. Another fifty,
Or at the most, a hundred and fifty years
Of celebration, globalization and spoof!
If not, then
To, my grand children
And their young ones,
Sorry,
For you I uprooted trees and planted polyphenylpropelene
Warmed up the Poles a bit,
Played a little ball game
Katrina Rita Wilma
All damned females playing part.
Nobel for Dolly of the cloned heart.
For you, who were never there
But in our imagination,
I bequeath an impaled sky,
Spread eagled with bird flu
Trusting you,
To avenge yourselves on your sorry ancestors
Watching with cold and listless eyes
From Mars Colony 211/B,
The lights go out
One by one,
Paris, Sydney, Rome, Perth
On old old Earth.