by Dr. K.V. Raghupathi
It cackled for fifteen years like jungle babbler
and then fell silent and lost its way in the web.
But I learnt the racing of my fingers from its hard chest.
It was a gift my maternal uncle gave
that taught me poetry and a little trade.
Over the years trade left, poetry stayed that gave me no fame.
Now like a broken chair it lies on the slab
covered with rat-bitten faded blue checkered lungi.
Someone wanted it, it triggered my greed
but it stopped, it whined strangely
with parts in disuse, dusted and rusted.
It seemed to have lost its youth.
Maybe it wanted to stay like the old broken chair
that was left by my father as a legacy.
It giggled and jeered –
You would be like me thrown by your humanity.