Elegy Written In a Country Churchyard

Hullo, folks! Do you hear me? You didn’t hear me when I was dying. At least hear me now, when I’m dead and buried. I am, as you know, Jinesh, Buried here—in this churchyard at Poonthura, Buried on Sunday— Like Solomon Grundy! I did hear you when you were crying— During the recent floods, Rushed to your help, Saved more than a hundred of you. You all praised me, called me a hero, Lined the street I lived in With posters, flex boards, banners and whatnot. Now you all know that I, as a pillion rider, Was hit by a passing truck, Which further ran over my helping hands, Crushing them— Thus, adding grievous injury to injury! I lay there on the roadside, Crying aloud for help, Which fell on your deaf years: You were all busy, all in a nervous hurry— Off to Timbuktu! I wept and cried for help, by turns. But I was left there to die unwept and unsung, Though I had been honoured. Now you all may say: RIP But, you see, I remain restless! ***