By Himank Garg
From I.G.I. Airport, New Delhi
- as its counterpart in Mumbai -
I travelled alone and light
with my misanthropy
packed away, to mend.
Some travellers
swayed in synergy
with the troupe that welcomed
the Year of the Dragon
as those who’d played dandiya-garba
with the troupe that worshipped Durga.
Their gaiety and my idealism
were astounding amidst our bouts of schism.
These days, His devout
have perfected striking
matches, like butchers,
from a matchbox sold
with the guarantee
‘Turns your home to a temple.’
Our Crow-Supremo,
harbinger of JCBs,
soars in saffron sunsets
veiled by a smog of faith and lust
in Februaries
over scorched streets,
perching on minarets
to caw like a lion
at the Sufis
and declare
the imminent
spring of pride
from the damp clime
of mistaken love
over our land of hot-blood.
“The travellers are, too,
artists at being
incorrigible
a billion times,
moving between
two points!”
My misanthropy let loose and remarked
but those sights of jubilee twice, when home,
was all that I chose to end that day with
before Christmas.