Salt And Ink

Festival

I lit the wick and watched
The momentary spark hungrily
devour
the camphor-dripping thread;
For all its worth it was reduced
To nothing but black ash,
Succumbing to its inevitable end.

I lit my eyes and watched
The lovely gifts my neighbours
brought
When they arrived for tea;
I ripped one open and beheld
A pen I'd gifted them long ago-
Gifted back to me.

A lonely cat purred on the streets-
His mellow, yellow eyes
Looking with unconditional hope
Upon a box of sweets.
He had not eaten a thing for the
last two days-
His pink tongue slowly caressed his lips
As he lumbered towards the owner of the box-
Only to be kicked away.
He couldn't understand their ruthless remarks
Nor their snide spitbacks,
All he could see was a blur of ugly faces that
Would've surely made him vomit
If there were a morsel in his stomach.

They pushed him as far from their legs as possible-
And when he tried again to regain their favor
By lovingly nuzzling against their toes-
They threw him onto the sidewalk.

And as he staggered to his bony feet, his stomach growling louder than him,
He could hear something tumble out of their mouths.

Something about his color.

Something about purifying their bodies when they get home.

Something about love.

Love that waxes and wanes like the moon
Love that prefers white over black,
Love that is an annual affair
Love that is just only to the fair
Love that isn't fake at all
For there is no love in the first place-
It's an empty box of sweets.
Love whose flexibility rivals that
Of the people who profess it.

Yup, this is a festival of fake-stivities
And frozen, plastered smiles
A festival of formalities
Of flowers and old wives.
This is a festival adorned
By crackers and sugary knives
Welcome to Diwali, folks-
The festival of lies.