It is a monsoon night,
That makes sign of deaths.
And I quietly pray:
No old buildings should collapse.
All beggars in the city though sicker,
By the wild rains:
Retain the stamina to sweetly smile.

Where I am in the tradition
Of perpetual lush comfort,
I can never imagine myself:
Living in one of those dilapidated buildings.
In my inner world,
I also have the creative power
To put my chastened culture
At the highest point,
By claiming:
I never give alms to ‘normal’ beggars.
It is a two-way vent permitting me
To escape from any passing guilt!

The short prayer that darts
Through my silent uneven thoughts,
Asks me,
‘Has your heart turned to ice?’
I fear it has.
I know the feeling.
It has snatched my sleep, again.

It is a monsoon night,
That makes sign of deaths.
And I quietly pray:
No old buildings should collapse.
All beggars in the city though sicker,
By the wild rains:
Retain the stamina to sweetly smile.

For Geeta and Gopalakrishnan
Mumbai
15th August 2011

Geeta Chhabra