Lineage

It was set on fire, the market place: from a distance I was watching, the hieroglyphic climate of the cutouts; some shoes with yellow human feet embedded in them, were thrown on the images of gods, lying on the steps of tanks: on hills the sex workers were doing brisk business in private retreats of the holiest of towns, a golden dome was being erected as an insult to poors, the streaked priests chanting the sacred hymns, hurling the abuses on red faced simians waiting on the rooftops, ashamed to share the inherited lineage but why one should kill one’s own daughter? SATISH VERMA