that he does not deserve 
that the time is not auspicious 
that the day is not Saturday 
nor even Makar Sankranti 
that he is dipsomaniac 
that he a druggie 
that he is not a pauper 
that he is not hungry 
that he is a wastrel 
that he is a guile 
that he is hoodlum, a mobster, a thug 
that he is an imposter 
that I’m not that rich 
that I’m not that rich to squander and 
splurge 
that I should first care for my family 
that love is a lie 
that poverty is a pose 
that compassion is all sham 
that hunger is haute couture 
for the old hack in rags by the roadside 
that a wrinkled face has slippery labyrinths 
that a fumbled mewing in utter cold is a mask 
that a face has an anti-face below the skin 
that there are thousand reasons 
to disbelieve, to unlove, to be unkind, 
to abhor, to turn our face away, 
to up the window glass of our Audi or 
Skoda or Maruti 
to withdraw ourselves from 
our other selves 
to un-remember that we are what 
we are for what they are 
to slaughter our nerves 
to choke our-ness into some inhuman coma 
to live as not to live 
to live as to be dead 
to die as to never have been born 
to be deaf to the begging bowl 
to be blind to the Weeping Woman 
to blame Him for what they are 
and are not as we are
to un-feel the pain, unthink the paucity 
to un-reason the plight 
to unread the book of mobs 
to unlearn unconditional considerations 
to be cocooned in insulated I-me-my-dom
to cease to be in bone and flesh and 
with giraffe-arrogance to spit at the moon 
to pee at the sun 
to earth-down the sky 
to step up the horizons and 
to stand at His shoulders and be taller. 

If this be, Good Heavens, how easily 
I’m excused. Self-pardoned. 
And I’m happy.

*******