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Where will this end? And pray, at what price?
Of what use incessant progress and inhuman might,
When we can't realize a life can't be taken twice?

Smoke from our fires spirals towards the skies
While we burn and rape everything in sight.
When will this end? And pray, at what price?

A tattered woman weeps alone; untended, a child cries.
Their dreams carpet-bombed; their nation, in blight.
Why don't we realize a life can't be taken twice?

We wallow in greed; our lives, complicated lies.
Our pens dripping blood, a crimson history we write.
How will this end? And pray, at what price?

Souls muted, we spectate as humanity dies.
We war over the petty; for the meagre, we fight.
Do we even realize a life can't be taken twice?

Beauty lies dead, her corpse swarming with flies.
The pall bearers come to carry her away into the night.
Where will this end? And pray, at what price?
When will we realize a life can't be taken twice?

***

My first attempt at a Villanelle.

Elections

I log off my computer, gather my stuff and leave for dinner. The watchman asks me if I'll be back and I nod back, saying yes.

Dinner these days is at a small, dingy hotel, a 15 minute walk away on the main road, or a quick munch at a mess nearby. But I decide against either tonight. There's another place I've not been to for a while, but it's a fair bit away, so I'll have to take the bus.

As I walk towards the bus-stop, I hear the muted staccato of crackers being burst at the party headquarters. The streets are littered with the paper stuffing from fireworks burst earlier in the day when the results came out. Flags lie strewn along the sidewalks. They'd won this time, like on many other occasions in the past. And in true tradition of conquerors, they were celebrating riotously.

There's a liquor shop at the junction where the lane from my office turns into the main road. It usually stays open way into the wee hours of the morning. But it's closed tonight, and the rambunctious bacchanalia is conspicuously absent. These shops are government run, and the party in power just lost, so the connection is easy to make. There's a towering luxury apartment complex right opposite this shop, and I look upwards at the windows to see that most of them are asleep. And it's not yet ten. The noisy celebrations on the streets don't reach their ears, ensconced as they are in the cozy confines of their vanilla-painted bedrooms.

I get to the bus-stop, and strangely enough there's nobody there tonight. Most of the shops around are closed as well. The tiny newspaper kiosks, tucked away in the small space between the big shops, are still open though, their fliers aflutter in the breeze, proclaiming the victors and ridiculing the vanquished. I wander into one of them, looking for a comic, but I see none, just gaudy publications with women flaunting their wares on the cover.

A man on crutches walks up and asks me when the next bus is due. I don't know, I tell him. Anytime now I guess, I add. He wants to go to a place where not many buses go, and I tell him he might have to change buses at the nearby depot. Which is quite a detour by the way. He looks back at me, his eyes distant, and stares away, looking to see if a bus is coming.

15 minutes. No bus. The guy shifts his crutches from under one shoulder to another. I whistle a tune, and look at the moon through the neem trees that stand scattered around the bus-stop. The moon is waning, and only two days ago, it was full. It's a pretty sight alright. The newpaper kiosks are doing brisk business what with people coming in to buy the evening editions to know the latest reports. Who won. Who lost. The margins. The inside stories and news about the coalitions. Two people dead in election related violence, I espy a headline. But before I can read more, I hear a bus turning the corner.

Looking up, I see it's crowded. Men hanging out of the windows, and clutching at the doors for dear life. I swear, and look at the time. 10.20. I shift my purse from my back pocket to the front pocket, drawing the necessary change enroute. The bus screeches slowly as it draws to a painful stop. I look at the man with the crutches and he looks back at me. I turn away and board the bus just as it is about to leave, leaving a woman who came late stranded on the pavement.

I extend my hand with the change between two men in front of me, grab a ticket, and bull-doze my way through a few others to a corner at the back of the bus where there's some space to stand. And breathe. It's bloody humid inside and I feel like a wet sponge being squeezed. I look around at the people. Some returning from work, some who went shopping, and some who couldn't get any other bus I gather. A couple of girls sit giggling, smsing on their cell phones. An old woman dozes with her empty fish basket, oblivious to the obnoxious glances the others near her seem to be casting at her. A kid cries from somewhere up front -- from the heat, no doubt.

Two stops left. And the bus lurches and heaves as we cross a speed-breaker at full speed. We then hit a pot-hole at the same speed. The people at the back are thrown out of their seats momentarily. It's a funny scene, to see a row of grown-up people, all serious and glum-faced, jump straight out of their seats and fall back down, and behave as if nothing strange happened. A few of them do curse the driver, but even that is half-hearted. I feel a pressure at my legs and see a small girl, not more than 10 years old surely, being pushed around by other passengers making their way in. I give way and she weaves into the small space now created and clutches at the railing, her shirt sleeve drenched from constantly wiping her face with it.

My stop is here and I hop off but not before more bull-dozing and wrestling. I make my way to the hotel, and plonk myself on a vacant seat. And there are not many tonight, what with most of the restaurants deciding to call it a day early. The waiter comes up. He recognizes me and grins. We won, he says. I smile back at him, and ask him to bring me the usual -- a plate of four idlis. And a coffee to keep me awake through the night.

I gulp the coffee and polish off the idlis, like a wolf which has had no luck. I pay, and check my weight at the meter they have near the counter. The display says, 69. I note it down in my pocket-book and walk off to the bus-stand.

I find myself waiting for a bus again. Meanwhile, two urchins accost me. They're selling ear-buds. Just 10 rupees sir, one of them quips, for a pack of 50. I look at my watch. The irony of being sold ear-buds at 11 at night by a couple of kids who have no business selling them doesn't escape me. I shoo them away. It was only last month I bought a pack. And I still haven't broken the seal on the pack.

I watch them walk away, soliciting other prospective customers. A couple of party vans pass by, loud music blaring from an outdated music system, their occupants delirious with victory -- and whisky, no doubt. They throw pamphlets out the windows and shout at the the few of us waiting under the awning. A man curses near me. His party had lost. Poor chap.

A bus comes by eventually. Again overflowing with people. I go through my routine with the purse and board the bus. More wrestling. More bull-dozing. More sweat. More people.

***

I knock at the gate. The watchman walks up, his gait indicative of his inebriated stupor. He flashes a torch at me, and opens the gate, breathing heavily into my face, the stench overpowering. I glare at him. We won sir, he explains between hiccups.

I walk into my cubicle, log on and get back to work. There's a program I need to finish.

I set some songs up on my playlist and plug my headphones on.

It's business as usual tonight.

Nothing really changes around here.

Cheese? Eh?

Big brother on the right, the angel on the left and of course, yours truly (how can you miss me?)...

Reactions at the office:

"Why are you so angry?"

"...gravity defying..."

"Sai Baba..."

"But where is the fan??"

Enjoy the picture. Caught up with work. Will be posting soon. Take care.