Resistance

If we hold this world in the hollow of our palms
Even as it tumbles down the drain
Being dug outside our window,
If we catch, somehow, this rolling world, and stall its descent
To the underground of capitals and parliament houses,
If we keep it, somehow, in our hearts
And away from streets that lead to hungry, material traditions
Of nation-making, history-building, news-creating,
Then perhaps tonight
Our party full of dinner and songs
Will roll with laughter
That does not constantly check
on the drain
Being dug outside our window.

If we carry in our pockets the world like a bunch of keys that sets free
Larders, pantries, godowns of silenced histories
So that the banquet is full again
With tastes we must have known once but have now forgotten,
Then you and I, my friend,
Can go on a long walk after the party
With the world on the dip of our collar bones
like a sparrow unthreatened by the hawk
Of fear.

What say you, my friend, that upon return we read a book together
And set the world like a lamp upon our side table to illuminate our words?
And what if, as we read, we turn to look at our lamp
Of trees, cats, toy rickshaws, picture frames, water bottles and ceiling fans
And realise that while books are lovely with words
They are written not by trees and cats
And are therefore incomplete and sometimes irrelevant
To our picture frames and water bottles?
What say you that we then close the book
And instead, under our lamp of skies and clothes cupboards
We touch each other gently and with mischief
So that our party full of dinner and songs
And our walk under the midnight moon
Culminates in raucous, happy sex
Even as the drain outside our window slopes
To unsavoury gullies of angry, misinformed mobs
That are bound to wake up one day
And wonder what, in god’s name, had possessed them?