Radio Jockey: On Air with Devi

Her window panes

resembled the symbol

of a raging band.

Her door,

had memorized her last footsteps

her waiting eyes

seeking a glance of her dead son.

The kitchen's back door,

broken too many times,

was locked shut with her stubbornness.

Stubbornness—

Her son's knock will stir her awake.

Her son is alive, she claimed,

She saw him zooming

on his dream bike.

Just this morning!

She cooked like a dream,

it tasted much like

her love for us

raw, selfless, forever.

Last summer

we laid our floormats

and she looked at the sky

with her waiting eyes

seeking a glimpse of her dead son.

She used to pick up her phone

the small ones

that fit inside the palm.

Like the promises

she whispered to herself,

that her son would return.

It was her survival kit.

Clicked once,twice,

an hourly check

perhaps seeking the missed call

of her dead son.

Gods and Snakes and The Dead ones

visited her two bedrooms and her kitchen,

she marched out with them,

not through the door.

She chose the red rough floors, of her bathroom.

The bird had been her anchor,

it repeated a lot

so did she

they borrowed each other's tongue.

muttering the same event.

About him.

The owner who left,

the son who was dead.

Philosophers and doctors

might enquire

about the foundation of pain

isn't it, having to produce kids

in a row

till you bear a son ?

Isn't it carrying the baby and

returning home

in the dark belly of the truck?

Isn't it having to live

with the ghost

of the lost radio dream?

Isn't it losing the

voice to the

whims and fancies

of everyone.

She did not suffer.

She slipped,

through her sufferings.

She slipped through

her nightmares.

Her hurry..

Hurrying past everything to

reach her waiting god,

Her eagerness..

bulldozed to death.

Her head fell fast,

to meet her son.