by: Saptarshi Bhowmick
The hazy sound of a ceiling fan
left me awake last night,
when I was deep in thought,
the day’s comical spectacle flashed before me,
like a foreign film, in exotic language;
and with an urban accent it ridiculed me
how alienated I feel towards my own reality.
That day I won an argument.
Against my psychiatrist I called up, a scenario,
where a disillusioned father kills his son;
and bluntly I proposed reasons after reason
in order to justify his sense of justice.
“He just can’t help pressing his pillow.
Only there he was able to finally put a pressure
in his son’s life; and at last the boy was submissive
towards his judgment_
If I recall correctly he polished up a character just
the same as the father, upright;
so bothers not to listen to his elders.
And there I left my statement, sorrowfully,
“His act is justified” and the psychiatrist gave me look
that I never forget till today,
a boisterous disgust in his eyes and scorn for my reality:
And Upon my grand entrance into a populated court-room,
a mob will give out cry_
Tomorrow as they will wait for the judge’s long anticipated statement,
“He is Guilty”,
Just like me;
when I waited for my son,
To be captivated by dark dreams.