Questions
What happens
when the city decides to leave
when we’re asleep
and when we wake up
it’s gone ?
No note.
What remains
when the sea decides to consume Marine Drive
and ups and asks us to leave
like a frustrated landlord ?
What remains
when the towers we’ve built come crashing down
into the holes we’ve dug
to bury
our dead ?
What remains
where hearts lie rotting
broken, shattered,
battered
by the salty sea
that drowned them as they watched the sun set ?
What remains when this city
stops pissing like an indifferent God
and menstruates
an angry Goddess in rut
bright red everywhere
— not a drop to drink ?
What happens when
all we’re left with
is a desert
where time falls between our fingers
sand in an hourglass ?
What happens
when I don’t matter anymore
and it doesn’t matter
that I don’t matter anymore?
What then?
Would I care
or wouldn’t I ?
because why should I ?
it doesn’t matter
if I care anymore.
Here’s what I’d do.
I’d wake up,
brush my teeth,
put on my monsoon shoes with holes in them
get on a train to Churchgate
and walk.
And when I reach Marine Drive,
I’d be careful
not to step on yesterday’s detritus
I’d pick my way through the rot and the worms
and I’d find a spot
that smells of hot samosa and sprouting love
and as the sun sets and the sea roars
I’d write.
Yeah, that’s what I’d do.
I’d write.
