National Marble

Let the city burn

We’ll always have National Marble
stout fireproof irreplaceable wall
against the Enemy
in whatever shape size or colour
against all challengers and conspirators he stands
with a mace in his right hand and a noose in his left
Guardian Avenger Shadow of God Lord Protector
To him we turn
*
Let the city burn

The Great Leader rattles past on a hand cart
he never forgets the guillotine and the museum
were born in the same year his picture’s being cropped
this tumbril is breaking its wheels on the paving stones
he’s going through this movie in a pallid trance
where did all the eucalyptus leaves go he demands
taking all the water in the capital district with them?
To him we turn
*
Let the city burn

The minister’s hat is leaving for Athens without him
not that it loves Delhi less but it loves democracy more
his sandals were reported missing yesterday
a crow from Gorakhpur brought him news
that a yakshi dug up from red river earth
was seen raising her mottled skull-wand to the sky
with a placard by Kalidasa saying Cloud, Go Home!
To her we turn
*
Let the city burn

It’ll warm your feet in their wrinkled shoes of rain
as you beat your mud-stained drums and jackals dance
on a dome no one broke because it was never there
that crack in the sky is not where the dome broke
it’s a hatch for young kestrels to escape this mad storyline
when they return they’ll carry drooping veils of malnourished rain
in yesterday’s sky Orion was not skipper or even first mate
To him we turn
*
Let the city burn

Making himself up as he goes along
the party whip has shot his bolt
he’s balanced on a diving board
looking up for signs of hope he sees a mushroom cloud
omen of what’s to come he sails through the air
he should have spoken before his head
struck the glass surface of the pool
To him we turn
*
Let the city burn

Twilight is the best time the magician says
to topple a statue ripened in its rectangle of light
no one asks how that could possibly be right
when all Sturm und Drang is day’s loud monopoly
leave it to me the magician purrs
I’ll trip the Lat Sahib with a lasso around his marble ankles
and give him a taste of honest manure-fed soil
To him we turn
*
Let the city burn

Djinns on their tractors driving to the rescue
doctors waving cannulae in the virus-poisoned air
hackers dancing ahead of the demonetised Demos
here comes the pirate with his crypto-currencies
there goes the quack with his silver-bullet remedies
such a polyglot crew swirling and stampeding around
National Marble whose drone consoles us as we drown
To whom shall we turn?

About The Author

Ranjit Hoskote

Ranjit Hoskote is a poet, curator, and critic

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