After months my carpenter walks in.
Exhausted and dull, anger
writ large on his face.
He sits on the steps, groans
and calls Gods fraud, dubs
religion as fake, Do not believe
them anymore, amma.
His voice gets choked. I try to
pacify him but he seems
not to hear my words.
In every street corner, each junction
one finds a temple in Indian towns
and cities. Passersby remove
the shoes, ring the bell
break coconuts, light oil lamps,
offer flowers, worship the deities,
go round the temple thrice
all in good faith.
The Gods, they feel, whoever
they may be, Ganesha, Krishna,
Shiva or Parvathi, have let down
the believers very badly during this crisis.
I start thinking and slowly move
to his pace, admitting Gods
have forsaken the devotees
landing us in a pandemic.
He takes leave, climbs down the steps,
chanting, Narayana, Namo Narayana.
Meenas Poems 