Aditri Kashyap Poet Free verse

Indian July

Look at that wee little boy, 
splashing puddles in an Indian July,
Look at his little legs go, unaware 
of the splotches, 
landing like affronting fireballs
On the pillars of an Indian mansion.

The extolled pillars are too hollow,
to support the masses of the concrete above
Stains and graffiti reveal its appeal,
So the owner requests some white paint.
and their far-reaching hands paint each other's backs

But July is a good month to verify ostensible ambiguities
It's harsh rain may chip off even the enamel of coatings
and may disclose a blemished design
That would certainly displease its visitors

The wee little boy, however,
splashes a puddle of iridescent water,
water so clear, the visitors see their sharp reflections-

of a student testing their limits,
as both time and hope fall from an hourglass
of a woman dipped in the elixir of her 'pious' duties,
duties which then drown her in the sewage of immortal duties,
of a man who can never be called one, because he doesn't exist
because others care more about whatever is between his legs,
of a mother clenching her children tightly against their tender bones,
tender bones that feed themselves from the smell of chapatis in the shop next
of a father who shows off his pearly white smile to his wife,
while the rusted mirror on the tottering tiles tells that he just lost his job
of a wee little broken boy, manually scavenging and scavenging for food


This Indian July,
More wee little children splash puddles 
on the pillars of an Indian mansion,
which they suspect is a kuccha hut,
The more they play relentlessly, after being tired,
I wonder if the mansion can bear all the rain and splashes.

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