Radio Jockey: On Air with Devi.

Her window panes 

resembled the symbol 

of a raging band.

Her door, 

had memorized her last footsteps 

her waiting eyes

seeking a glance of her dead son.

The kitchen's back door,

broken too many times,

was locked shut with her stubbornness.

Stubbornness..

that her son's knock will stir her awake.

Her son is alive, she claimed, 

She saw him zooming

on his dream bike.

Just this morning!

She cooked like a dream,

it tasted much like 

her love for us

raw, selfless, forever.

Last summer

we laid our floormats 

and she looked at the sky 

with her waiting eyes 

seeking a glimpse of her dead son.

She used to pick up her phone 

the small ones 

that fit inside the palm.

Like the promises

she whispered to herself,

that her son would return.

It was her survival kit.

Clicked once,twice,

an hourly check

perhaps seeking the missed call

of her dead son. 

Gods and Snakes and The Dead ones 

visited her two bedrooms and her kitchen,

she marched out with them,

not through the door.

She chose the red rough floors, of her bathroom.

The bird had been her anchor,

it repeated a lot

so did she  

they borrowed each other's tongue.

muttering the same event.

About him.

The owner who left,

the son who was dead.

Philosophers and doctors 

might enquire 

about the foundation of pain

isn't it, having to produce kids 

in a row 

till you bear a son ?

Isn't it carrying the baby and

returning home

in the dark belly of the truck?

Isn't it having to live 

with the ghost

of the lost radio dream?

Isn't it losing the 

voice to the 

whims and fancies 

of everyone.

She did not suffer.

She slipped,

through her sufferings.

She slipped through 

her nightmares.

Her hurry..

Hurrying past everything to

reach her waiting god,

Her eagerness..

bulldozed to death.

Her head fell fast,

to meet her son.

@jess