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Poem

My friend
Lazarus of Bollongre died
In an accident.

He shook it more than twice
When he peed on the fence of Nehru park,
And it cost him his life when a truck
Rammed him from behind.

All of us,
His bereaved friends, knew
He wasn't Lazarus of Bethany, and
None of us a carpenter either.

But we shouted at the morgue's door,
'Lazarus, come forth', beatified by barrels
Of rice-beer we drank in mourning.

At his funeral,
Two days later, we buried him
With pomp and gaiety.

His coffin rested on our shoulders
On the way to the cemetery, and we carry
The fond bruises till this day.

His soul 
Rested for a while at Balpakram,
And he washed his feet in the black pool.

We hung chunks of smoked meat around the ancient rock,
Food for his onward journey, and we shouted again,
'Lazarus, go forth'.
And he left for his eternal home, and
We raised our glasses one more time for the road.

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