Riot | Elvin Lukose

The following poem by Elvin Lukose from Mumbai was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

doors latched shut from the inside

he sits on whatever remains of the toilet seat

at a roadside latrine

smoking his flimsy cigarette

watching the smoke ascend

to irritate the halogen glow

of a bulb that hangs hopelessly

from a leprotic roof

 

the bucket is filling up to the brim

drop by drop

from the nozzle to the bottom

keeping time

in a suddenly timeless world

 

he can see the flashes

on the door in front of him

like a movie

the civil barter of warfare

of petrol bombs and molotov cocktails

 

the only company he has now

are these buzzing flies

fleeing from the clouds

of phosphorus

of gun powder

and ash

 

he can hear the police

the blaring microphones

the battle cries of the street warriors

the goons

the guardians

and the invisible line between them

 

he peers out of the window slits

all he can see are

legs running

bodies darting from point to point

some of them interrupted in their tracks

by a gunshot to their belly

only to fall onto a puddle

of their own blood

soon to be motionless

lifeless

 

he is getting used to the pounding

on the outside and the inside

there is nothing worth watching anymore

his eyes haven't closed since 3 days

there is no dream

there is no sleep

no night

no day

just flashes of amber

and smog from the pyres

 

he sits back on the toilet seat

staring at the little streams

meandering between patches of moss

on the moist floor

spiraling into the closet

the fetid stench is suffocating

but bearable

at least it doesn't smell

like blood and fire here

 

the cigarette is shrinking

down to the filter

his last fix

is about to end

his eyes are wearing out

his toes are pruning

from the wetness on the floor

he lies down, curled up, legs to his chest

head to the knees, in his own little womb

he can hear his mother

singing his favorite rhyme

like an angel stroking his weary head

within a tactile memory

 

he still has two match sticks

and one more cigarette on him

as he holds its crooked body

trembling between  his fingers

and buries it back in his pocket

for safekeeping

for future

no matter how long it is

or how short

 

he will need to stay there

for a few more hours

maybe even days

it looks like it will be awhile.