The Gunmaster Poem by PRATHAP KAMATH

At school he taught us chemistry.
In life he shot the wisdom of kill.
We called him Gunmaster.

He was a Martian to our Lilliput,
an Anglo Indian hunter-teacher
whose Sabbath was the Holocaust of birds.

Elements that sang in the hunting air
and the whams of his shots forged bonds:
whatever he did was chemistry.

When he narrowed his eyes alongside
the high-slanting barrel, we saw pigeons
perching on rooftops shed defences

and bow like newlywed brides, tilting
their heads slightly to project their necks
for the lead to enter their souls.

The gun too was laid to rest with him
while the birds had been innocently
awaiting call at high nooks on a rainy Sunday.