It’s my way or the highway

One day a long time ago,  I traveled across the town
in No Man’s Land. A place
where you find blood flowing in streams. A place
where darkness shrouds the sky, more than the burqas
has been stifling sexuality in faraway Afghanistan.
All of a sudden in the fervour, I was in
a nameless highway, like a snake in
a flood of misery the road skidded.
The naked carcasses on the roadside
shamelessly smiled at me.

The chilly winds started blowing so unfriendly,
it had shuddered every heat  of the land. Yet
it was less hostile than the people on the mountains
looking down on me. And it was less worse than
the living experience of the people. And it was less vicious
than the fuckfaced authority. And I got up to go forward.

The verdant landscape, punctured by various hues of blue
in its artlessness best made me happy. The mystery of the nature
weighs more than the contrived grandeur that can be
measured in lengths and breadths. —At least in my perception.
And then I saw some tree-people, their face blurred by the distance;
but I could take in they were digging their trees,
searching for their roots. I continued my journey.

For a fag, I fell to a 10x10ft multipurpose kiosk.
Every thing was gettable there: petrol, DVDs, pan,
some groceries and some assorted things.
Five percent of petrol, which the land receive
from the donor, was for sale there—another
five goes to the oil pumps
while the bulk balance goes to
the fuckfaces we know who fuckfaces are,
so I was told by the dullish shopkeeper.
I wanted to dedicate the song to the fuckfaces
‘Go suck each other off your booty
while we damn the peace’
And yes, I smoked sitting near the petrol bottles
—so fake so cheap that there was no question of fire.
And he showed me his DVD collection
And he also sells charcoals, he said,
to burn the winter’s butts.

I was deadened by the silence that engulfs those areas.
No activity. No nothing. But I was proved wrong by
a thousand marching bands of protesters. They came out
at one corner of the road I came across them while
I was lost, my mind was lost in desolation of living.
The wailing people had machine guns
The wailing people fired blank in the sky of absurdity
The wailing people had bombs to scare the shit out of their dogs
The wailing people found no other animals
The wailing people had frightened themselves in the affrighted land  
The wailing people were composing the songs of revolution
The wailing people were singing and puking blood
The wailing people had pena with guitar strings
The wailing people were wailing for the decadence.

The hour-long parade, the loud whirring marching was
so transitory. The racket got over as soon as the group of
Nuon Chea-looking guys towards the end of march went passed
by me. That it seemed the noise vanished into thin air.
But it did, it did—the isolated trees and shrubs bore witness,
It was more cockeyed than a drunk madman. So it was
a matter of frustration. So it was just
the grub and chuck at the end of the day.
And then it would be the duty of activists. And then
the endless cycle: eat bullet and shit potassium nitrate,
guttle wallets of money like dogs tearing old sacks open
and shed tears in the name of the land and the lord
while some people, with their blaséd indifference, wasted their lives
in the barren territory smeared with carmine.

Then I went up the hill gumptiously. I saw the folks
spending their lives, their slow life without ornaments
and unaffected by the atomic clocks. But they were happy
in their face I saw our true roots. And I came across
a group of people. Reluctant were they to greet me, saying,
“In this shithole—we know we belong together
in this shithole—why are you pushing us further down
while you are swimming away to the shithole on the other side?
We don’t know how it is on the other side
but now what we want is to get away from this shithole
by hook or by crook.” I told the group, “We are together,
let’s get out together…” But they left me in the wilderness
of the mountain even before I could finish my sentence. And I,
walking along the steep road, pondered on the absurdity of our lives.    

But that was not the end of the road,
the unknown was spread far and wide.
And my line was clear. Either my way or the highway it was
From the highway, I took one of its part to make it
a part of myself. Let the highway take the whole from me, I don’t mind
The ownership I would not even claim but it’s right;
It maybe lacking sophistication, it maybe short of worldly ideas
but I’m convinced it’s right. And so I did commence my journey.



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