Two Poems - 2.

(Continued from previous post)

Over the last five years, I found that it is difficult to navigate a way for meaningful learning and growing, for a child who types.

This niche carving of a small, safe space consumes almost all my energy resources. 

On one hand there is the child with unique expressive ability, different neurology, social construct, sensorimotor mapping, motivations, and, good comprehension. On the other hand are standard educational systems clocked to practical recipes. 

M was tested by his schools- per requirements- through regular academic tests and special tests. He scored well. 

The tests continue to give him a place in this world but they also show the smallness of our testing methods. 

Because to start with, we still don't medically understand autism, what causes it, what it really is! 

I wrote this in 2013 when M first started typing independently. That is, happily typing on an Ipad-keyboard, sitting a small distance way from me. It was a milestone in my world-view. 

This poem somewhat reflects my conflict. 

*****

the secret of dark matter

are leaves green?     is the universe big?

everyone dies, one way or the other?

happiness makes you smile?

songbirds sing?    is he intelligent?

crystal clear, but not apparent to some  

For we judge from what we know    we casually

invalidate the life of another by a  

glance or sound not considering

the arduous path he walked to come here

For a sip of table water   

survival is a daily struggle

When a body is held by autism     a consistent signal-

I am here, I exist, I understand, let me in..

Above the distracting drums of bodily chaos 

is like a revelation on spiral stairs of proofs

but we mostly ask-    can we test?   

it is we who are palaced in boxes of thoughts and doings

we live by the fine satin ribbons tying us up   this is a

designer bow- two twists, 5 loops    so pretty    no ugly    even as our

sight deftly eludes the plain self-sculpturing truth well within

Our boxtrains    chugging chugging on meter gauges    

setting busy systems and metrics for measuring and pouring out

intelligence    so we can pack, box, label and ship it by ground 
to a known place for other bored systems to unpack and assort

our intellect can take only that much, anything more

is taxing to our neural nets    which we tightened nook and neuron,

patient wrench in hand    school and school and school   so we know only

how to grade others to our inflexibilities    Yes he may

Take one sip of life    no he cannot, go to quadrant B, table 3    parents can look

through a window for 3.57 minutes on alternate fridays

can we bottle birdsong?    taste green from a spring leaf?

not seek meaningfulness because we’ll all die anyway?

yesterday you typed, you typed independently.     fully.

met a metric for validation from set systems    so my weak heart

betrays me; it has joy, it is calm    I went to the same life-schools you see

I can’t come out of my box even after opening up box after

box after box    for every x of loosened ribbon knots, y new

ones appear    and loosening one somehow tightens another

anyway I lean back in my box because now I feel more assured

Of standing room for you at the table of the living    I also feel awkward..

I don’t understand. Like someone after figuring out the secret of dark matter

is waiting on a busy, dusty roadside    nervous chalk in hand   

to tell someone     tell anyone 
who stops -   I can write the proof..      independently.      fully.

April 2013

Two Poems - 1.

Today is the last day of the month of Autism Awareness. 

About 50% of people with Autism cannot speak or speak minimally or cannot speak fully functionally. Some communicate with devices that speak for them. A small population uses typing or a board. Each device, whether high-tech or low-tech, is a huge learning effort. Because the neurology of the person using the device is of autism, which has many unknowns.

My son, M, first started typing in early spring of 2011. An accidental happening. I wasn't aware of all the communication techniques being used already. I had read that some adult stroke victims while healing can type before they can talk again. There was also insight on how they view the world. I put two and five together and one day, when we were on the sofa, I said 'mom' and placed a keyboard in front of him. I was intrigued. 

It took a few weeks before we tried simple words. 3 letter words, 2 letter words, 4 letter words.. It was an extremely tiring effort for him. Then 2 words, 3 words, 1 word answers to questions- What's up there? What is this? What is the color of the sky? 5 minutes at a time. 2-4 times a day. Soon, I had to leave the study for I could not hold myself after the session. Shaking, delighted, shocked, straining to comprehend and metabolize the unfolding reality, walking around to compose myself. 

I would ask trick questions. I would explore for self-consistency. 

A month or two later, one day we tried a very small story. I asked him to tell me a story from a video he loved to watch. He typed with a focused face, all his life force engaged in the effort of transferring a scene, an idea, into a medium of words. A new way. Each tap of the finger an act of hesitant grace. He typed a few words, searching, pausing, struggling, concentrating, being direct, being repetitive. 

One word he typed was "son". I slowly figured from the context the word was, likely an interesting substitute for "prince". Do you mean prince? Also, he started the story from the middle, the peak of conflict! It is his unique trait, I found later, again and again. He gets to the main point right away. And tells from there.

This poem is how I felt when M typed this first story. He was 8. 

*****


Summer is Coming!

Today was cloudy, cold and windy.

Last night, the rain tapped on the windows -

Can I come in      no, stay outside

It is cold here      no, if you come we will all get wet

Late-noon we were looking out our study window

branches and leaves plumped with moisture, sinking down down

Will you break and fall     no we won't

Peach buds do not have white fungus anymore

at wits-end I almost asked the gardener to trim down the tree

I wavered and before I knew the nubs appeared and that was that

Did you hear my thoughts?     no, I didn't

Two days ago it was warm, even hot -

screeching squirrels were chasing each other

Do you have to be so intense?     yes, we do

Birds singing, hopping, nesting

Are you tired, I asked one bird resting flat on the ground,

legs tucked in     it skittered away

Ants got into the lid of the honey jar I left outside

Some saw me and fled. Are you trapped, I asked of others     yes we are

wait, I will get you out of there- I held a paper towel for them to launch into

Life is crawling out of every crevice to meet the sun

in this festive see-saw between spring and summer

Honeybees, bumblebees, hesitant butterflies, pregnant ladybugs

arrived for our afternoon yard play

What are you doing today in the cold?     We are lying low

It is ten o’clock now at night and my son isn't sleeping

he’s coming out of his room on every pretext

Do you want to sleep     no

No worries, I am not fatigued. For today he typed a story,

his first. 'Snow White' it was and started-

there was a girl   she ate an apple 

What happened then?     she fell down

Thoughts weaving into garlands with language blooms

these eight years of low-words autism, watching, waiting 

waiting for a string. Tomorrow when I'll ask him to continue the story

I'll be finding more blooms- he came, she heard him, there was a son,

each flower beaming with the beauty of a shy universe

Strung on so exquisite a string, it is almost invisible

I have to close my eyes to see it

Something in the path we're walking through

is giving the tastiest crumbs, never in a straight line

I pick each up like a gem that never was

I can't wait for summer

for the choice will be warm or warm

Will you come closer, faster? I ask the Sun

    No, silly mama. I'll stay my course and you do the same

(April 2011)

***** 

The Blue Heron

(In December/January we went to a small town a few miles north of SLO- San Luis Obispo. By train! (which was our first). The change of place in a vacation always slightly changes the shade of my perspective, often apparent only in retrospect. I tried to capture it in a picture-poem)

****

Countless birds, some so small

Before you could think bird, they were gone

In a valley meadow so large, it fit a world in its palm

And in it, a house with a mountain's calm

Amtrak and a car took us there,

A few miles from the Happiest Place in America aka SLO

A snow storm somewhere

Made our late train arrive in the middle of night

Squirrels running, birds about, midday light dancing, green standing.

Penny the owner’s dog

Took a dip in a pond so small

Her friends from neighbors, two black dogs watched

And from not afar, a cow mooed

   

                       

Two squirrels lay on the road outside, surprised by death

Two hawks circled in a mating dance at border trees

An egret came to the pond looking for a serious meal

And for a lunch of tomato-kichdi, we went inside

Gentle Penny liked my son

She took it upon to keep away too much attention

From over-friendly black dogs

Do dogs know autism? Maybe some do

We see what we want to see

A fish is going to die for the egret; a singing bird will go into the hawks

Cars on errands will drive past the dead squirrels

We see but don’t see that beauty stands with the ugly

I saw a bear and two cubs the other day! The owner said

Moving from pile to pile of burning wood in her small tractor

Oh, about 20 blue herons came one day, they were

Hovering, just hovering in the air, only darting in for a choice fish.

From the historic unused bridge on the Salinas river

I saw the V-shaped ripples of ducks swimming 

Met by the circular ripples of another duck suddenly diving in

The mixed ripple front calmly reached the shore

Just as in the vast mountain lake, as if nothing happened

We build our worlds of meaning from what we see

And learn to ignore what we can’t or don’t wish to see

They say 95% of universe’s mass-energy is unknown

Our fabric has a big hole?!

I saw squirrels running off into holes in the meadow

Turned back and saw my son checking out one with his shoe

When I said with alarm Oh no you’ll twist your ankle

He stood back with a quick amused look that was of soft moonlight

The ducks in the blue lake were agreeable

The still mountain trees in shades of light were agreeable

Why do agreeable things bring happiness and enough happiness, peace?

Maybe I’m not seeing it right

But I know I’m at peace where ever beauty doesn't hide the ugly

Maybe because I’m like the blue heron

Hovering, just hovering between two worlds, real and autism

To bring in a select something when I see it

Back and forth from pools so large

In the womb like sloshing of sleeper coach I fell asleep

Your home station is at 8:45, conductor knocked. Do you want anything?

Can I have a pillow? Not fully awake, I said

Seeing but not seeing the question in her body language- Now?

She got one though seeing I couldn’t use it in the 10 minutes left

****

A Whale Watching Trip

(an account of a whale watching trip with our son)

We went on a small boat trip on one weekend early in August. We hoped to see some whales. Word was that unusual numbers of anchovies in the Monterey Bay were attracting unusual numbers of ocean life – from birds to dolphins to whales. To visit, feast and frolic. This in turn was attracting unusual numbers of whale watchers.

There were two parts to deciding to go. One was making peace (again) about watching wildlife from a boat.  Second was if our son, M (11), would be able to handle a long boat trip with an unpredictable agenda. Previously on smaller boat rides he sat quietly in his life-vest, without a smile anywhere and was very relieved when the ride was over. And back when he was a baby, he was confused as to why he couldn’t get into the water and wriggled in my arms, trying to dip his fingers into the water.

But much water has crossed under the bridge since then.

We chose a smallish boat from the small town of Moss Landing (pop. 204). There were 20-25 people waiting at the dock. The boat was late by ½ hour. I put on my sea-sickness band and took one to my son.

He has special needs. He will need some time to put on the band, I said. The young man dispensing the bands agreed amiably. It took a few minutes for the husband and me to convince our son to try it on.

All this time, I felt the presence of a man, a fellow passenger standing behind us, sort of disapproving something about our interactions. He didn’t know that a person can have sensory difficulty to accept something new on his skin.

I often face that. Most likely the man did not know that M has autism. It was not apparent to him (to some it is not apparent and to some, it is). Also, some symptoms tend to fluctuate. 

Earlier, I had shown M pictures from the website of the boat trip and discussed the flow, the expectations. How it will begin and when it will end. What the main purpose was. I asked if he wanted to go. He said he wanted to. However, I could sense some anticipation anxiety in him on our car ride there. 
I had also discussed what to expect during the ride with the owner of the boat, who gave some helpful suggestions. 

****

Then just like that, the time came and we were at the steps to the boat. I went up the steps.

But the idea is different from actual experience. M hesitated. The steps were moving. 

I heard a small no 

It is okay, I explained, from the other side. It moves a little because it is on water. Hold my hand. no...

I quickly looked at the line behind him and his father. The lady next in line kept a small distance and was smiling in understanding. Phew. The boat guide was patient. Phew.

(I had expected this, M's hesitation, when he actually has to get onto the boat. It also happens when we have to board a plane. He needs a few seconds where perhaps he has to accept for himself the change in state)

It’s not that he is saying - No, I don’t want to go. It could be (and most likely is) No, not yet. No, I’m not quite sure I can do this. But he doesn’t have these verbal strings of words at his disposal on the spur.

I waited and offered my hand again. You’ll be fine once you cross over the steps. We’ll sit over there on that bench. Then just like that, M came over.  The three of us settled on a on a bench.

The boat took off even as we were fitting a requisite life vest on him. For a while M was fearful. He held on tightly to his father or to me. A sudden surge in new, raw sensations is so difficult for him. It adds a range of extra unpredictability to a body that processes sensory inputs differently. It took 10-15 minutes for him to get over the fear and give relaxation a chance.

****

Soon we were at the side of the boat, watching the water. Our eyes  glued to the water. It’s just the motion of the boat, I further said. The waves go up and down and so the boat goes up and down. He smiled. If you stand with your feet apart, you’ll be stable. He tried that.
Interesting, how a boy who can spin like a top on a spinning-trapeze and casually come back to a graceful standing position without feeling any dizziness- can find this experience unsettling.

Humpback whales showed up. Moving freely in the waters. They didn’t jump out of the water but were swimming in a relaxed pace. To spot the squirt, then to see the enormous body come out, and then to see the tail roll over – was out of this world. Actually we could tell there was a whale around somewhere by the number of boats waiting in a big circle. It felt like a flexed intrusion into peaceful whale habitat and made me uncomfortable.

I went back to our bench. Is your son feeling sick? A woman sitting next to me slowly asked.

No…

M was standing close to his father, still unsure in his skin and err… a little bundled up (by me). 

After a pause I said- He has autism

She stared back for a few seconds as expression drained from her eyes. She took a breath.  Is he liking the boat?

I think so

It is so good of you both to bring him, she said warmly.

I smiled. I didn’t know what to say. We chatted some more.

She was part of a big connected party which was more than half of the boat. We met civility and understanding from the co-passengers we interacted with. They understood M’s needs and expression and let that go into the background. Also there were no extra challenges thrown up from any side.

The only challenges were that he met by himself- the sound and vibrations of the boat being perceived differently by him, his vestibular and proprioceptive systems making his balancing and regulation different, not having all the tools of communication at his disposal even as newer demands were placed on him, resisting the sensory call of the water, the list goes on. He integrated them and found a way to put them in the background and be with the ride. 
He didn’t feel like typing. Too much was going on and his energies were grouped up in the experience.

****

Lo and behold, the up and down motion started to make me feel nauseous. I had been on boats before and had never felt this. It was awkward. I found our seat while M, now fully adjusted and having un-bundled himself, was freely going about the boat with his father. They sat at the side of the boat with other passengers and watched the whales. He loved the patterns the boat made in the waters.  He wasn’t looking for the boat ride to end.

Some playful dolphins and naughty sea otters came to show off. We saw at least two floating pods of sea lions. Then we saw a spotted whale which apparently has been coming to this bay for years. It has some spots from a collision with a tuna fish boat, 20 years ago. The boat we were on had a driver, and a guide who was giving many details of the types and features of the whales we were seeing but I was drifting in and out.

After what seemed to be a long time I asked, What’s the time? Because of that query I found out that we were on a 4-hr long trip! When I booked, I thought, I was sure, I was booking a 2-hr trip.

I made a mistake. I am careful with these details and yet somehow, I made a mistake. We were now ~3 hours into the trip. I was so relieved that I came to know of this in the last hour. I would have had some panic if I had come to know in the first hour. I didn’t pack lunch, I packed only some snacks and we were well past lunchtime. Then I knew why the baskets of others had so much good looking food!

No wonder it seemed like a long time on the boat. I was tired but M and his father seemed alright. It was a bit cloudy so we weren’t out in the sun and that helped. I noticed that the boat switched gears, rode fast and went up north.

Here the whales surfaced very close to the boat, on both sides. Mums and calves and friends. With them came the inevitable flattened water showing the shape of the whale that dived in. Like a mysterious mirror into another world.  Like fools we kept watching the same spot while the whales surfaced back elsewhere, even if they did. It was as if the boat was surrounded by whales. There weren’t other boats around and it didn’t seem like any intrusion, the whales easily outnumbered the boat and didn’t bother about us. I’m sure there were mostly humpback whales, not that it mattered to me or us. Wherever I looked I could spot a spout, then an inevitable whale or two or three. It was simply unreal.

I zoned out of the voices, the announcements and excitement. Just watched. A magnificent life form in its magnificent home. Such easy joy in its flight. In living. Is this for real? Is this world for real? If it is, the only thing that mattered seemed to be joy, the joy of living. Even now when I close my eyes that’s what I see- I see whales coming out of the vast gray ocean, diving back in and the tail flipping over.

Did he have a good time? A voice asked as we were leaving the boat. She was the lady waiting in line behind us when we were getting in. Another man come forward and offered a earnest hand when M was looking for a foothold on the moving steps (he didn’t seem to need it).

Later back at home in the quiet of our study, M typed a small something, after I suggested the title (in a 2-word poetic form that his teacher had asked him to experiment with over the summer).

****

Note. since this ride, M has been on smaller paddle boats on local lakes a few times and is loving the boating. Each time his adjustment period to the movement of the boat is getting shorter...

Old Park and Playground on an Anniversary

(a picture-poem)


We arrived early at the old park on a Monday

Scuttled from a visit to a horse farm by heavy traffic, no, by my misgivings

About such a day being about a busy road

When anything can’t match the collective happiness that once was

Bottled in a day. Hey, we can find a quiet space to get a whiff again, I said

To the disappointment of two out of three of us

Past the cement rink where we sometimes scooter

Past the long lawns now empty of ball kicking school children

Past the hushed trees in summer respite 

And wandered into the empty playground at far end

If you notice you’ll see the park is old, made by minds and hands of the 60’s, 70’s

Where in the low swing set, two out of three of us found a rhythm

A 20-something backpacked boy found his way to the picnic tables

Alone in the green, in a space of his own, opened his laptop

If you notice you’ll see the spaces are different, when more adventure was allowed

In play and scream. I ran my fingers on the metal slide, it was hot

With no rough edges, unlike the slides where I grew up

My skirt sometimes nabbing a surprised tear, always L shaped

The play structures are different, the shadows, the spaces are different

As if life then wasn't held up pedestal by pedestal

The monkey bars were set higher, the breaths were deeper

Maybe the silences were longer, yes, the silences were longer

So maybe the music was heard, it was not always all sound

That doesn't stop but steps up and up a ladder with no slide

A mom glided in with a loaded stroller, a toddler and a baby

Smiling baby on lap she sat near the sand and chatted

On speaker- We are going to hang out here and go to grandmas for lunch

An old man sauntered in and went off to the tables

Near the lone boy, the way the old need the young and the young

Don’t need the old

I rested at the arbor, found only in these old parks

I sat on the metal bench, like so many before me

Like so many before me, I walked away

A stranger to all that passed through here

Like how the boy and the old man barely saw

That I was here, we were here, on a morning of an anniversary

Maybe I’m looking at it differently

Like how my son, if asked, will recount a different way of seeing

The same. Maybe there’s music at all times

Even when I don’t get the sequences of sounds and silences

Maybe there’s always a need. Because it's the infants, the old, the different,

Who know. Who know of the space and silence that’s always in our minds and hands

                                                               ***** 

a San Francisco home

(This attempt is somewhat new: I'm trying to finish a train of thought within a few days. I'm trying to move from the habit of not finishing a thought. I have many trains of thoughts that didn't reach their destinations. They were close but didn't come fully together to give life to the journey. They are just sitting, waiting.
Also, I'm experimenting with picture poems)


                                                                           ****

I turned the clear handle on the kitchen side door painted white

 To match this beautiful house, three floors remodeled, 34 picture windows

   Faced steep, cold steps with faded spilled paint stars and pet hairballs

      Step by step down into the guts, moist, tumultuous, brimming musty

       Where now? I wondered at the foot, swallowed by the churning memories

         Of lives lived, piled freely in garage. A speed limit sign, lamps, shades, a safe

          Bags, tables, stepping stool, baby mattress, bike pump. A tarp underside,

           Hiding more. Marcia, flower child of 90’s, the wall peeling off its secret scribbles

          Of lives being lived above, digesting the imbibed in closed off basement garage

        In this beautiful home, standing tall with siblings on a warm wide street

      Spotted a door at left, sunlight streaming from once used pet plastic cutout

    Hesitantly opened a creaky latch on that wood-naked side door, it took me into

  A stone path, a turn, 3 steps down- into a sky bright yard in a canopy of trees

A patio, long lawn chairs surrounded by small wilderness, home to 2 lively blue jays.

  Came back up the same way a while later, closed the white door and Oh that’s what

   The bells on the handle are for, if an intruder comes the wrong way up, we will know.

     You fancied the bells and took them to swing in the air for a while

       This is an AirBnB house, we need to put things back where they belong

       We’ll only take our memories, I’d like to remember this small stool by the window

       Which you fancy, sometimes sit to watch me cook with a pleasant expectant look

      As if this spot, this house, this street, soil, sun and all matter came about to poise

     Now, to meet up in you. But you don’t hold on to baggage however beautiful 

  So I’ll set it out, free myself except for the small wilderness of a memory of a memory

                                                                          ****  

"The Kiss"

(a poem)

"This Wedding Photo is Breaking Social Media Record For Most Likes!" - http://instagram.com/p/ogSSO6uS9C/

I don’t know much about fashion 

I live in a bubble within reflections of reality

But even I saw the Instagram picture-

The newlyweds kissing before a wall of white roses

Isn't Kardashian an Armenian origin name?

Like Kevorkian the euthanasia doctor?  I knew Chagoyan in grad school

I asked him once about the genocide but he didn't want to talk 

That’s 3 degrees of thought-separation, is it?

Opulent wedding in Italy.  Italy,  Berlusconi,  AC Milan,
Football,  World Cup,  Brazil,  Protests,  Poverty.

Let’s start over.  Wedding in a castle.  Catherine Zeta-Jones,

Oh that marriage is no more

Let’s try for a happy ending.  West.  North by Northwest,

Would LOVE to go on a train in my own cabin like in the end of that movie

Because, maybe in the rhythm of gentle rocking from stop to station

It’ll be as if I’m doing something even when I’m really sleeping. Hold on-

Maybe it’s as if we’re all AT the wedding even when we’re not

Because we’re really floating in our very own bubbles in the rhythm of the internet

Seeing any reality and reflection we fancy– like a wedding kiss before a wall of flowers

Stopping at any station of our mind, rocking from rant to rant, like to like

*****

Amaryllis (Naked Ladies) and California Poppies

(a poem)

Go on Alameda de las Pulgas for two miles and turn right at the light on Cedar.

Keep going, and when you see a bunch of naked ladies on your right, you’ll need to...

That’s where people lose the flow, she amused. Her lovely home in Menlo

To which I flew from the east, visiting my new husband in his rented student’s room

I woke early, ate her banana bread toasted twice

And picked tiny bursts of oranges from the spring-cold grove 

Jasmines eager for the Indian summer

Open their drowsing faces in the evening

Graceful roses come in spring

Come here, come come! From far a neighboring auntie called, to fix a rose in my hair

Just as I was rushing for college bus, thinking of all the looks I was going to get-

I wore a half-sari for the first time at seventeen

Hibiscus opens fresh at dawn, red or pink. Also Parijatha, white on orange

How come a battle was fought for this tiny flower?  I amused

Oh the pink lilies that kept me company while I wrote my thesis in a Chicago cold

I wrote Nitrogen and they halfway opened, wanting to know more

They gave petals, tendrils, pollen and watched while I wrote papers

A big blue vase, a white vase, some small ones and I even made some later

Daisies came with the house in the bay and light up every spring

For my son’s first summer I planted a row of noble sunflowers

Walking along, a look askew and before I knew, my view was split into two

One is fake and the other is bare

Where only beauty in the bare makes sense, or else it is fake

Flowers stayed beautiful for themselves and my vases walked to closet

But when California Poppies come in spring

And I spot them on a hillside here or that sidewalk happenstance

I stop and stare.

Even though one can never recover from some things in life

Amidst busy feet, from a dusty dry shrub in poor soil in high wind

Comes a burst of 4-petaled orange reaching for life and love

There can be unimaginable beauty in the absurd, it amuses

And my split vision merges into a new whole, for all the time I stop and stare

Turn at the light and keep going until you see a shock of poppy flowers in the front

That’s the house you’re looking for -I’d like to say directions sometime

Walk the pathway through the waving orange on green

Come up to door and come on in, we’ll be inside.

*****  

Naked Ladies 

Parijatham

California Poppy

A month later, in memory of..

       ***************************************
                                    Jyothi

                                         A

                                        bus

                                 came by, they

                                  hesitated but

                                    got inside

                                     anyway.

           Sparkles in eyes, lightness in steps, just a

           boy and girl on the way back from a movie.

           Interrupted. A nasty comment by one who

           lured them inside with a singsong solicitation

           whistle. Violation became vicious. Fueled by

           entitled rage. Hours later, a nation found its

           guts were pulled off. Shocked nation lay by

          roadside, bloodied and naked in the cold dark.

           Cuts, bites, wounds for all to feel. But no one

           offered to cover even as it agonized for help,

           shivering, bleeding, throbbing. Even one tear

           of the young girl who stood up for the right to

           be herself has more worth than all that was 

           ever fathomed and will be - that almost all

           felt this later and their hearts hushed as she lay 

           dying maybe the realistic hope that there is for 

           this restless nation, so young, so old, so much 

           vigor and so resigned, now forever haunted by 

           the headline“A large number of Police Vans 

           and BSF followed the victim as her body was 

           taken for cremation.” When one, just one cop 

           or a morsel of respect in any of the 6 men could 

           have saved the night when a girl going home from

           a movie bravely battled beastliness in a quietly

           plying bus in the heart of a city in a free nation.

***** 

January 2013