It’s no worry if you live in a place
where there is so much bitterness around
desalination. Where Hindu priests get
a piece of the beach to build non-veg snacks.
Where the word clothes doesn’t rhyme with the word loathes.
It’s no worry if you live in a place
where people promised to live to be a
hundred are diagnosed with fake cancer.

It’s no worry if you live in a place
where children kick a football and have to
look for it in the grass. Where the police
cannot act due to gross lack of paper.
Where people drive to go and walk in gyms.
It’s no worry if you live in a place
where politicians stand on your shoulders,
and pee on your head, with your permission.

It’s no worry if you live in a place
where universities are less equipped
than kindergartens. Where fat lightning strikes
when gay sunrays are predicted to shine.
Where heroes and villains sell heroin.
It’s no worry if you live in a place
where mighty Apollo and immortal
Phoenix are the two most consumed legends.

It’s no worry if you live in a place
where there is water everywhere, except
in your tap. Where (macho) drivers have crushed
courtesy dead on roads full of stitches.
Where leaders lead, and err, like all humans.
It’s no worry if you live in a place
where people have egos healthier than
their health. Where women deliver babies

in public hospitals with one leg in
their coffin, each. Where two persons notice
they have the same identity card and
one suddenly ceases to exist. Where
everyone wants a job but few do the
job. Where a storm in a teacup or a
teacup in a storm makes no difference.
It’s no worry—it’s no worry at all.

BEDS

Volcanoes of sin, craters of virtue.
      I still berate those beds that forced my head
            onto a downy pillow to find sleep
                  The bed in the prayer room, the bed near the plantain.

Beds where things I wanted—never happened.
      And where things I never wanted just happened.
            There’s that little bed I got for myself,
                 where I found the fountain spurts more than just water.

And there’s the bed where I found no difference
       between a torn blanket and human skin.
           There’s the old King-size bed, with the redolence
                 of my grandparents, where their dear shadows still

sway to remind me of their last pain, each.
     There’s the bed where I dug deep holes to hide tears.
           Where, after dinner, I gave my ugly lips
                 to my abstract beloved to taste, with fatal fire flowing

from my wild heart. How the longcase clock would mince
     the nights! How I felt like a boxer trapped
           on the ropes, bullied, bruised, when darkness,
                complete darkness would ridicule my beautiful soul.

And then, there’s the bed where I spent just one night
      and bliss oozed from the blows in my stomach.
            And from the seeds of a stranger’s innocence,
                  I almost grew both a beard and a cute baby.

Now I start to see that grim, forsaken bed—
      where I’m bent, and blind, and lame. I smell of urine,
             have a fruity breath, a few teeth missing, stinky feet.
                  How I wish my beds had been little, brightly-lit cradles

with a mosquito net, and tidily arranged toys.

Amit Parmessur, Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius