At hundred and four degrees
you learn the art
of curling up—
a warm embryo in an imaginary lap;
Outside, the world’s abuzz
autos and buses speeding
with the rest of humanity
in feverish bread-hunt;
my terrestrial module, it seems,
has slammed the brakes—
I resign, let the world pass by;
The gushing taps, the grating
of the maid’s broom and voice
touches a raw nerve somewhere—
you learn to gulp it
like the inevitable pills;
Life is measured in six-hourly bouts
against a backdrop of agony
mercifully punctuated by
a caring wife’s ministrations;
In those rare introspective moments
you wonder if you’ve loved her enough
and tearfully admire the little son
who has donned a fatherly role
with his concerned touch on the brow
saying, “Dad you’ll be all right soon”.