Even chalk-dust
Has settled down.
You prance about, always
The last one to leave school
Because your home is just a stone's-throw away.
You linger. You look into empty classrooms
Expecting fairies and naughty gnomes to pop up.
They might have stories to tell you, secrets to share.
One day you see Shamshed all alone
Only he doesn't see you watching him.
One year your senior, a rank holder,
Orator-in-aspirated-Hindi, football player.
Shamshed, on all fours.
Shamshed, with thrown-away food.
Shamshed, swallowing discarded left-overs.
That day, you stopped staying late.
Nothing magical happens at school.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Thirteen at the table
They discuss the law of torts and title-deeds.
They wear watches more precious than time
And branded shirts and smell
Of eleven different varietes of imported cologne.
They sip chilled Evian, to wet their throats.
They are sinfully religious: they fast for Lent.
You take down notes for eight hours straight
Your intestines swallow each other.
You think of other things to ward off hunger.
You dream of the only son of God.
You halluncinate.
You hear voices.
In a new sermon at The Mount,
(the ten-star multiluxury hotel, not a nameless hill)
(Attended by everybody who is somebody)
Mr.Jesus bombastically speaks of plans to launch
A zillion dollar conglomerate to produce
Steel-frame, titanium-coated made-to-order needles
Where the eye allows camels large as leviathans
To cruise through.
