Decades ago,

one cloudy morning bereft of sun,

few fathers of anarchy caught cold out of nowhere.

Sneezing rhapsodies

of how they should’ve been born cold-blooded,

they devised a cunning mantra of raising the mercury

forever, thereafter.


Then started the incessant beating of drums

made of human skin, framed in more human bones;

and vocal chords buttressed the AK-47’s sweet symphonies.

Comrades, they heard those melodies,

and so they came in marching,

they joined in the lot and never left.


‘Wear these technicolor pants’, the fathers asked of them comrades.

They obeyed and saw it for themselves

the magical,

the exotic, almost sci-fi aftereffects of wearing these skin-fits.

Technicolor pants

gave comrades the mystic powers

to hide between bloodstains and sweat-beads,

to harness hopes in congregation,

to disguise,

to vice,

to swing from victories to defeats,

and back again to the square zero of existence.


Comrades then became cold no more.

Messiah, Demi-Gods,

Millionaires, and almost superheroes,

they morphed into anything they envisaged.

They outdid volcanoes in thermometers.

With time, they polished themselves

layers after layers

they filed, scrubbed and added subtle hues of deception.


Decades ago,

comrades had bought – in stocks-

cough syrups to chase the cold away.

Now that the climate’s changed,

they’re freezing the syrup down.


They’re making ice-cubes

for the next one thousand summers.


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