Waste Land

This is a silly post though I dare to call it a poem.  Read it at your own risk.

“In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.”

T S Eliots’ Prufrock had at least the consolation of women coming and going talking of Michelangelo.

 

I’m back to regular routine tomorrow.  And women will come and go talking of duties, workshops and seminars.  They call themselves experts.  They will dictate the terms and conditions.  They have the backing of a religious sect.

And I will sing along with T S Eliot:

Weialala leia

Wallala leialala

The winter break is over.  The real break is going to begin. Religious break?

Or feminine break?

I’m looking forward to Madame Sosostris with her Tarot cards.  She will determine the future.

The future of her staff.  She has started by terminating the services of the redundant. 

Who is not redundant in this world?

Is the expert essential?

Is the Swami ji essential?

Is the Manager essential?

In this “Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,”

the crowd is thinning down the sullied Yamuna’s banks.

Old Delhi.

Too old.  Dying. 

Dying in Khooni Darwaazas.

Died long ago at India Gate and Raj Path.  Only Jan Paths may remain open.

At Jantar Mantar.

Sighs, short and becoming infrequent, are still exhaled.

Sita lila. In Ram lila grounds.

Satis.

Satis coming as sirens.  As queens. And then?

Back to square one.

Back to duty. to life and its routine obligations.

To patriarchy?

Or promised matriarchy?  Where paternity will be an opinion

and maternity will be the only fact of identity?

Nevermind.

Life is.

I am not at all a masculinist.