It rained acid today.
The droplets trickled down
The bark of the
ancient peepal,
Much like tears on a
tired, wizened aaji’s face,
Caressing every furrow
on that parchment-like skin,
Leaving behind a
glistening trace of red in their wake, singeing hot.
It rained acid today.
And the old peepal bent
lower,
Denuded of her leaves,
her wisdom,
Broken, a mere shadow
of her former glorious self,
Mustering the very
last bits of her once limitless energy reserves,
As the woodcutters
hacked away at her foundations; a branch here, a nest there.
It rained acid today,
Just as it had for
four and a half years.
And as the executioner
swung his axe one last time,
I heard clearly from
the safety of my cocoon on a distant hill-top,
Amid the cacophony of
the saffron sea, baying for blood, or what was left of it,
A voice;
grandmotherly, resigned (it broke my heart beyond measure): “You have failed
me!”
