A moment dribbled
from the past
and clung to the rods
on which we played
all day.
A drop from my veins
met the ancient ones;
stigmata, you would say;
the ancestors shrieked,
A murder chamber
once was
where all night you do jagran
on Mahashivratri;
and beneath the floor planks
a corpse still waits
for its last rites.

The building was old I knew
the day they demolished it
I went there again
and picked the orphan moment.
It still lies on the
mantelpiece.

*A building in Simla, which, rumour has it, used to be an execution house for the Indians during the British raj, and is being used these days as a PWD office and community centre.

(First published in Chandrabhaga 4/2001)
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