1. Coronayana

We assemble in the gulf
between the old broken landmass
and the unknown island,
in our prosthetic muzzles and snouts,
made restless and jumpy,
panicked by this hairy endeavour
into ordered procession,
bent in all directions
by grain, fruit, and instant noodles,
by boxes stamped with party logos
that refuse to lighten or float
like Rama’s magicked rocks.
“It’s all too heavy, man!”
We yearn to build bridges,
to stack, cement, to work,
to huddle and collaborate,
but this is an isolationist war,
and to stay alive, survive,
one must stand alone.
Viruses, unlike asura kings,
have no motives or lusts.
Their kingdoms cannot be
set alight by simple fires
or cowed into compliance
with righteous violence.
Their vaccines don’t grow wild
on dirigible mountains.
Perhaps we are better served
by less ambitious tales –
of ring-a-ring-a-roses
or lonely breadcrumb trails –
than empty boasts relayed
from long-winded thrones
made of loopy monkey tails.

*

2. On the Nose

Interstate milk truck,
sicksweet vacuum-tube of rot:
tin can for migrants.

*

3. Humble Request

Go, Corona, go!
Go where the vessels haven’t clanged!
Kindly spare the true patriots!
(Focus on the Tukde-Tukde Gang!)

Go, Corona, go!
Go where you know them by their dress!
Kindly spare us Sanathanis!
(But please infect the Sanskaar-less!)

Go, Corona, go!
Go where the lights are still switched on!
Kindly spare the Bhakt brigade!
(Feel free to kill some non-Mitron!)

Go, Corona, go!
Go after the Sickulars and Reds!
Kindly spare our Saffron friends!
(We’re running out of hospital beds!)

—

Vinayak Varma, 2020