When life is just perfect
rest assured
a black cat will appear from nowhere
and mew
giving a shiver in your breast
some bad news is coming.
And sure enough
the bad news scales your courtyard wall
and you have to take out from your bookshelf
The Geeta, or The Quraan,
or the Bible, or The Granth Saahib,
The Avesta, The Dhammapada,
or any book on Jainism.
How ephemeral is everything
you wonder.
Scores and scores of bad news
were preceded by some black cat's sudden appearance
in your courtyard.
Perfect days bring in squalls
and you are sobered by some literature
quoted above.
You had stopped counting your days
and suddenly you realize
your days are numbered,
many having been wiped away unnoticed.
Suddenly you become more religious,
you take stock of your travails
more than your travails.
Death, you have the colour of a starless night,
the colour of Kali of the cremation ground,
the colour of the black cat
that forebodes the imminent
unforgiving truth.
Pleasure is like a mirage
of desolate existence
called Life.
Death, you are like
the dear Lord Krishna,
who has always been your charge.
In your forgetfulness
you just kept forgetting him
till a black cat comes in your courtyard
ever so often,
again and again and again!
