After
the explosion, the silence blithely
Resurrects itself. There is no report of casualties.
People are so used to being blown to bits these days:
Prayers shiver down sodden wicks on Divali*.
The
silence is a piece of wafer. All huddle around it–
Afraid to eat of it. It isn't strange that deep in the ghettoes
Somebody should prick his ears– above the muezzin's call–
To plumb the soundness of the silence.
The sky is rigged with booby traps. Nobody mentions
Death by lightning. Natural occurrences are rare:
In life as much as in death. So long as the silence lasts
There is no cause for panic.
(*The Festival of Lights that is celebrated throughout India
by lighting lamps and bursting crackers.)
Shimanta Bhattacharyya
Copyright © 2007 |
