A Lunatic Hit by a Car

In the pool of blood lies the

Finger—decapitated and snatched

From its owner’s hand.

Whose finger was that?

Every one knew nothing of the man;

Every one knows something of the man.

Lonely and singular finger was thumb;

The nail of whose has been uprooted

And now there a fly flies

Shading its hazed shadow on the

Stopped rhythm of the blood.

Where the finger is pointing?

To every one or to the nothing.

Every one knew nothing of the man.

They beat him up;

They thrashed him down.

Some asked him to

Chant the name of the almighty—

The ultimate onus of the truth.

Some threatened

In the name of the deity.

Nothing made him chant the name.

Everything made him gurgled and vomits

Saliva along with foods he had

And blood he has in his veins.

Every one knows something of the man.

He used of

Running the errands of a nearby cheap rice hotel,

Leaping—one leg donated to polio.

He, in the morning, had clashed with

A young lady living, nearby, in one of the new complexes.

She screamed after he crossed.

Her golden chain from the neck was missing.

They hold him and throw him to the hot asphalt road,

And had questioned him on the where about of the chain.

He sat on his knees, with effort, and prayed whispering

And whined where one tucked his hair at the crown

He knows nothing; he’s not a thief or a snatcher.

But the circle around him was an assembly of juries

Deciding on the wrongdoings in a wink;

Guilty he was; now lying to prove his guilted innocence.

A search was done;

Unwashed clothes snatched and torn.

He guard his genital in shame when

One kicked there on the hand

Starting the process of the justice.

In the pool of blood lies the—

Emptiness…

Finger…where does it go?

A feast for a crow sitting on the

Asbestos roof of the rice hotel.

Everyone knew what has happened—

Some boasting on participating in the justice procedural;

Some pondering where he’d sent off the chain.

Everyone knows what has happened.

The limping man taken up in a police van

Wrapped in a blanket

Unconscious and mumbling for water.

There was no gun or knife

Only feet and legs, punches and thrashing;

Bricks and sticks, curses and spits.

There was only urges for taking the name

Of the almighty

And the lost chain was trivial.

He felt no pain among the pains.

Wise and honest keepers of jurisprudence

May though knew the thumb was

Severed—

Not every, but few ones.

Now,

Rain is washing away the blood,

Drenching the dirt and tattered clothes.

Now,

A constable is writing report—

A lunatic hit by a car.

Now,

The young lady found her golden chair

Inside her bag, kept when

She couldn’t recollect.

Now,

The man lies, naked, in

Corner of a dungeon, dark walls and damp floor,

Chanting the name of god

As he had,

When all asked him.

A group of rats looking at him and cockroaches walking over

The puss and blood

oozing out.

—Sangbad, 24-09-2019