Maophobia

A maoist has descended somewhere
in the eastern mountain range.
They say they’ve seen through the gaps in the leaves
eyes burning in thirst running fast
to hide and save his self.
They say they’ve seen his nail-bored pug marks
in the marshy dark.

Rattling noise, they say they’ve heard, of freeing horns
tangled in reeds and bamboo shoots.
A star racing in haste
as someone breaths deep in the woods.
A scent of distress emanating from the crowd
that made a retreat from the countryside.

Letters no more in use
lying scattered in the grass.
We are from the Intelligence,
the detectives, the forest guards, the merchants of justice,
searching every hole for him;
but, alas, there’s none who has ever seen him.
Papers and channels fill themselves with him.

Is he the one promised in the Vedas?
Or Antichrist, Kalki, or Mahdi?
Or a prophet from another Indian province
sent by some Keralite god?
And yet the Thomas I have within
has his own doubts.
Does, these days, someone
waste one’s life for things like Truth and Justice?
Did anyone of you see such a man,
oh, trucks that take away sand from the river beds,
oh, long queues at wine shops,
oh, toll plazas, flex boards of man-gods,
oh, gold shops, brick kilns,
did you see,
oh, mobile phone towers, flats, malls, entrance coaching shops,
did you see, did you see?
The question flew from mouth to mouth.
From real estate to rubber estate.
From hidden camera to sound recorder.
From channel to paper.
From policeman to the absconded.
From doctor to the medical rep.
From Raskolnikov to Rip Wan Winkle.
From Iyyob to Yehova.
From Nachikethas to Yaman.
Miavoo… Isn’t it the cry of a cat?
An RJ asked the air.

Not miavoo, mow is the right usage,
corrected the professor of the UGC.
We, nonetheless, didn’t leave it at it.
Catch him we did.
He was on the back of a fossil of a horse
hurrying after a rat
when we trapped him in our net.

 Translated from the Malayalam by K.V.Subramanian

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