Nidor Now, Forever Poem by O Sudhir Janardhanan

The
arc of
the throw was
all wrong. Maybe, there
was a misheard prayer. The
petrol bomb just fell and the
splattering was followed by the crackle as
the fire sparkled; raced to play catch up
with the flowing combustible. It then leaped in joy
to devour all symbols of poverty that permeated the room.

The
rickety, rope
tied bed. Broken
bookshelf laboriously resting on
upturned tin container. It gleefully
lapped up all the information into
soot. Prayer book shriveled in the heat.

The
boy, not
yet five, stared
transfixed at the magic
of the fire. It kneaded
things around it into gloop and
then scarred black misshapen, it flung itself
to embrace anything that it could lay its
spark on. The child whispered, "Call the fire brigade"

The
father shushed
with his fear
sighed, "Nobody will pick
up the telephone Today". The
child watched transfixed, from above held
tight, in quivering embrace of his mother

The
arc of
the throw was
right, bottle wobbled in
paucity, tripped and choked lives.
The smoke dense all around. Above
him, under him, so much in him.
He just carried bit of burning smell of
smoke, charred flesh on his tongue from now, forever…


© O Sudhir Janardhanan