On every Diwali Puja,
bursting crackers has always a new name to me,
it is the season of a spastic child.
When I was having my ninth temperament,
he came with plain robe, with one crooked arm
inside the pocket, and below the waist were elongated
two heavily drawn chimneys;
Though was unseen by us his intolerable joys of
declaring a genuine delivery – “No”
He went back home with a cloak of dust, truthfully lied
to have played a lot around
He is a wheelchair maniac now,
always coupled therewith
He has a prototype sister like mine.
She goes to school, wears jeans, does nothing,
relishes with her palm his fiancé’s elbow.
The firecrackers go up. All the RGB and CMYK
with electric lashes flash across the sky
And amidst the smoky mass of ashes,
he enjoys the firecrackers only with dumb eyes
The Diwali dhamaka sounds “No” to that young man