From the bedside of the sick
Between the catheter,
And the steel bed,
Lies a continent of
Despair and hope,
The person frail,
Strapped to the
Drip hanging from
A bald pole,
Beyond your reach,
Responding to your
Calls but feebly,
Eyes fluttering a bit,
Reviving hopes in your
Constricted chest,
On a bitter winter morn,
When fog has eaten up
All the new blocks of
Hospital and other
Famous New Delhi landmarks,
And a highway that snakes around and never sleeps,
You see the face that was once a delight,
Now creased and shrunk,
A gentle hand that was held
On occasions so many,
In the Central Park,
Crossing the Times Square,
---And you had looked back so longingly
At the receding Broadway and the
Seventh Avenue, like a child; the thunder of the
Applause still ringing in our ears; we were so happy,
Lazarus and I, the one who rose from the dead, I remember you
Saying, eyes bright, smile playing on those full lips, the pout, so dear
To my pining heart---
In the Trafalgar Square, we had fed the pigeons before it was banned,
Because, somebody higher up thought, the feral pigeons were a health hazard;
And we had crossed the Parisian streets in the night,
L’Avenue des Champs Elysees and the Montmartre fascinated you the most;
And, in Delhi, we shopped in Connaught Place…
…And we read Dr. Faustus, while you slept in the Roman ruins,
And, in the Colosseum, we heard the screams from the 80 AD,
The screams of butchered animals and gladiators from that place,
You had shivered badly and said, I see ghosts that need to be buried;
The rains had caught us surprised in Auschwitz,
And in the plains left by the Khmer Rouge,
I was holding your hands,
I still do,
In this hospital room,
Thinking of you,
Your lovely voice,
Your concerns,
While it rains,
And I hope to take you home,
One of these days,
Where others wait,
And Homer still stares from the wall,
Eyes glassy but all-seeing,
As you had correctly said… |
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