Author Bhavika Sachan

Category Poem

Abstract Have a glance of the vibrant "crime" committed by the poet !

To the people waiting inside me-
I went to the Bazaar
In the fresh hub-bub of clustering plates,
Catering knives

Peddlers shouting their wares
Newspapers, cinemas, telephone booths and ignorant speeches
I passed by all.
Next to the radio reporting some mystery,
Listening in aquiencence, overcome with a futile shame,
I picked up the apples, oranges and pomegranates.
Sharply bargained with the already submissive shop-owner.
Finally won, I sighed
At the plastic bag doubly burdened
By the silent guilt of the exchange.
I made my way back
To the bivouac of life.
Yes. This is me alright.
A regular here.
I wonder when it all began.
Yes. It must have been then.
When I was inside-
Unsure, unaware:
Posters selling health and happiness,
Large returns for small investments:
Gambles and chances everywhere.
I am thankful to that poverty in which I was born
The unaffordable fool who couldn't pay for my death
The ignorant man who didn't drown me in my mother's milk.
And the conscience which was aware of some things.
Sometimes, I wish it otherwise.
Because right now, I am corrupted by the world,
Made less human continually by the crowd.
To the people waiting inside me
I know I am not enough.
There is no forgiveness for me
And no apology to you.
Riddling over the past, present and future
Of a nameless you,
To the tune of the radio playing,
I hum the news
Of my quintessential crime.