The Guest
.
I said, “Welcome to my guest.”
He said, “No, I am a refugee.
A dove that has escaped
The talons of pursuing hawks. ”
I just treated him as a guest.
I could not make out what to serve him.
“May I know what would you like…?” I meant food.
“Like taking food with my family,” he replied.
He was like a deep dried up well
Hard to peep into.
“Is this something I can safely eat?”
His alarmed looks seem to betray his fears.
“I smell smoke from somewhere,” he said.
Ploughing his fingers through the food,
Thinking of his family with every grain he took in…
He did not really seem to relish it…
It was as if he was lifting up with a picotta
His oceanic-grief from abysses within.
He was seemingly here
But was roaming elsewhere.
Thinking of his still untraceable brother,
His kidnapped sister,
Dismantled families…
His forced exile from his land… dreaming
Of his ravaged streets,
Dissipated friend-scape,
Razed down villages
And scattered community…
He looked grieving with his whole body
Finding his two eyes inadequate.
And ultimately,
Leaving as silently as he had come, he said:
“Thirsting for blood is a fatal infection.”
.
Shajahana
Telugu
Indian.
.
(Image Courtesy: Back Cover, Dardi, A Collection of Shajahana’s poems.)
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