11th July 2006

She sat on her haunches and wailed,
A wail that was heard above the din of Mumbai,
Black clouds like mourners gathered and looked down,
A dismembered hand lay near her feet,
She could identify his hand from the many others that lay there,
Not by the Titan, that he had purchased with his Diwali bonus,
Nor by the sleeve of the shirt that refused to leave his hand,
And not even by the nails that were still pearly white,
And not by the fingers that had curled up like a baby’s,
Strangely, by the familiarity of the sensations that the hand had given her,
The hand that fed and loved her,
A few hours ago, this hand was clutching the handle in the train,
And returning home,
Midst the Mumbai rush hour.
She cried out even louder impotently,
Her screams nearly tearing the black sky apart,
Red blood still oozed from the hand,
Redder than the vermillion on her head,
Fresher than the tears from her eyes,
She knew not who and why,
Nor did she understand the politics,
All she saw was mangled remains in a twisted train.
The school fees, milkman’s bills, house rent,
Little Munni’s dreams,
All exploded
With the bomb that detonated in the 6.11 local,
that snaked its way through Mumbai, the land of dreams.


Post note

She knitted two purls and one knit,
One knit and two purls
For Munni’s daughter.
When dusk fell,
She often thought,
Did they get what they want by killing him?
The dismembered hand,
Was the only identification that it was him.