The Smell of Burnt Rice
In the satisfaction of the few
Lies the hardship of the many —
The beggar’s son’s annaprashan
Becomes a grand affair.
He casts a fishing line
Baited with fish itself,
Pours ghee over burnt rice.
Seen here and there,
That’s all his life amounts to —
Marching with the flag of some committee,
Hoping a meal might fall onto his plate.
Then one morning, suddenly,
His name appears
On the martyrs’ memorial list.
Two drops of tears fall, unbidden.
The smell of ghee on burnt rice
Lingers in memory —
And there is nothing more.
