The Torn Bag Was Ugly. Poem by Sushruta Mishra

This book I read years ago,
And, I read it again.
I hoped, the music lived on
and, I would dash through it,
an exhilarating, enchanting ride
But, it was not to be; And
Déjà Vu
Again and again.
I foresaw every sharp turn
in the tapestry of words.
Swirling tunnels and cascading slopes
damped; and a mundane ride remained.



My childhood memories are such,
pages of a book, cooked overnight in ephemeral soup.
Blotched ink - torn and crumpled pages, remain;
falling away covers and disintegrating words.
And, sometimes, I crawl through them.
Clutching at letters and scampering words.
And, they do, they do fit sometimes; And
Déjà Vu.
Again and Again.
Occasionally, a whole page survives.
A sturdy one; a page important,
or, utterly useless; a page loved
or, hated utmost. And, rarely, it tells a story.



In fifth grade, I wrote a page
A particularly ugly page; unfortunate
and hateful. And, I wrote it nevertheless.
"Make haste", I yelled as politely as I can.
We walked to school and she made me wait.
I hated it. Punctual.
Obsessive compulsive punctual.
I was never late and she was never early.
Together, on time.
Early morning drama, after the
disgustingly damp and sugary oatmeal.
And, we walked, together in the morning fog.



We walked half a kilometre. I loved the fog.
Tiny floating drops, cold and clammy,
Numbing hands and runny nose,
I sure loved the fog.
Wintry fog, baby snow blizzards. Proxy in the tropics.
Few early rays slip through,
glistening pearly dew drops,
until I step on them, Ugly.
A Seven-thirty class in the December morning.
Bloody suicidal.
Ugly and hateful.



On the side of the school gate, I saw
a bag, the one children carry, the one I carried.
The bag was torn.
And few books lay scattered around.
Someone left, in a hurry, may be.
It was difficult, different, odd and weird.
A few teachers stood huddled in;
whispering; or may be talking,
I couldn't tell. I was far away.
But, it was odd. A bad omen.
Unfortunate and hateful.
The torn bag was ugly.



I stood in a column.
Columns of hope, of boys and girls,
straight as an arrow, uniform and regular.
So odd.
The torn bag was ugly.
It was the morning assembly.
We prayed in chorus.
We pledged in unison.
A girl said the "Thought of the Day".
And we dispersed into our classes.
It was wrong. It was different.
The "Thought of the Day" was different.
The torn bag was ugly.



And then, the rumours started.
Someone died. And, that was it.
Fifth graders are not supposed to know much.
The first hour had passed.
Class teacher- still absent.
I remembered seeing her in the morning assembly.
And, suddenly, the speakers blared out loud.
The head-master was speaking.
On the microphone.
"There will be no more classes today".
He said something more,
no one cared. Students yelled out.
Naked joy. Ugly.
The torn bag was ugly.



"My students", he whimpered.
"A fellow student has died".
A girl, she was trapped under the wheels
of the school bus. Ugly. Hateful.
She died yesterday after school.
Near, the school gate.
And, then I remembered seeing,
something smeared near the bag.
Bloody. Blood smeared road. Red.
The torn bag was ugly.