Crushed Beneath Nostalzia

By Nagendra Gangola

Traumatized by the suffocating 
Artificial Life and emotions
I crave to visit my native place
Fantasizing the warmth of my village,
My excitement was in full swing
Till the Banyan tree meets
Me weeping alone in its own shade
In the midst of the village,
Waiting for an echo of fraternity
Its shadow has grown darker
The grownups prefer to sit
In Air conditioner now
The old ones are struggling with
Their loneliness more than their ailments

I see children in the verandas or
Gathered on the stairs of houses,
Curved, arched over one another
Busy in their cell phones and
Uttering strange dialogues to someone
Staring at their screens
Their eyes coated with violent looks
And ears rhymed in the music of gunshots
Jumping and laughing at each kill,
The playgrounds are mostly
gobbled up by concrete buildings
Or littered with shiny, colorful bottles
And disposable glasses

I meet villagers and forced to subscribe
Hundred of them till evening
Superficial echoes of their talks
Hammer my mind and heart
And the next day I find
My folk songs crushed beneath
The sound of huge speakers
In a marriage, where people forget
Everybody standing besides but
Their selfie sticks and blogs

Most of them are busy in sliding
Their fingers upon the shiny
Rectangle of six inches
And showing it to each other
And that is the time they
Share their laughs or sighs
For a moment and then the other fellow
Comes with his/her slim
Cuboid of virtual emotions
And the competition of sharing stuff
And relishing other’s life goes on
Till the Pandit ji declares “marriage is over”
Having chanted the final mantra
from his cell phone.

The dead- silent courtyards of village
Are waiting for a group
To gossip over a tea
My people now gossip inside like
A novel of ‘Stream of Consciousness’
And I am helpless, watching them
Sinking in the vast sea of Narcissus Complex
Posting every single life event and waiting
For a smiley or thumbs up or
A hilarious remark of appreciation
Every now and then like a hard core ritual

Suffocated under the debris of my nostalgia
I move slowly with my back pack
Enters an innocent voice
from a window to my ears -
“And then Aunt Polly asked Tom
To whitewash the fence instead of
Going to play with friends the whole day”
Oh! I breathe and I raise
My head out of the debris smiling
Perhaps we are not lost completely!