Poetry by Saranyan BV

Not Knowing What to do with What is Left



I sat in the railway station leaning on a chair.

The evening was pleasant with orange-violet cotton clouds.

The chairs were meant for the passengers waiting for the 5.45 pm shuttle.

The passengers carried veggies and sweetmeats in yellow bags to take home.



Most of the passengers were old and capable of coughing the phlegm of life.

One or two well-to-do walked up the refreshment stall and slurped the hot brew.

I never went to that side because it reeked of sour milk.

Aroma of guavas rented the air where I was seated. It is the season, though late. 



The bill advertising the tabloid press said,

‘An engineer from the public works department was found dead in the reservoir.’

I have seen only fishes in those turbid waters, big and small ones snapping their tails.

Sometimes pachyderms appeared from the thick groove on the banks for a drink.



Doubts were raised if the engineer committed suicide, or was it a murder?

A crow wearing a grey collar flew under the roof. It pecked at crumbs fallen off 

The potato wafers people bought, ate from polythene bags to kill hunger 

While the wait pounded blue vessels and produced dreariness.



The fritters would be swept away before sunset 

By the station cleaning staff enveloped in bellow-like overalls.

These particles would soon be part and parcel of the purple carboys in which garbage collects.

The crow has to make a quick dash for its supper. It did not pause to read the bill.





The news of the engineer’s death did worry the crow or anyone. We were not like the crow with the grey collar.

We sat craning our necks and knitting brows, not knowing what to do with what is left.

One of us returned and said the post-mortem is done. The pyre is lit without a trace.